Farther Down the Road
by Mals86
Summary: Updates and peeks into the future for the Conlon gang - Tommy, Kelly, Brendan, Tess, Paddy, kids, and friends. Collection of one-shots taking place after the events of The Long Road Home. Some of these will be family/fluff stories, and some of them will be for more mature audiences (yes, lemons).
1. Chapter 1: Love is Something You Do

**Farther Down the Road: Love Is Something You Do**

**Summary: Jack Porter thanks his stepfather at his high school graduation assembly. Scene takes place approximately ten and a half years after the close of The Long Road Home.**

Tommy Conlon had always thought the slow process of death really began at the age of forty. Until he hit it, and realized it wasn't so bad. He's forty-one now, and other than the forehead creases he's had since his middle twenties, and the sprinkling of gray in his beard stubble, he thinks he looks pretty good. He's still in good shape, thanks to the personal training he still offers at the gym and the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes he teaches. Thanks to the love-hate relationship he's still got going with the heavy bag and the weights and the running.

He doesn't train mad crazy the way he used to; he doesn't need to. He's de-bulked some since he gave up fighting, though he's still got his biceps. His wife likes them.

He still can't even think the words "my wife" without smiling. Same deal with "my kids." Let other guys complain about how ungrateful and annoying their brats are; Tommy doesn't have to deal with that. His kids are _great._

And the oldest one is about to be out of the house soon. Which, to be perfectly honest, Tommy has mixed feelings about. He's loved Jack practically since the minute he met the kid. Doesn't matter that Jack's not his biological son.

They'll have the summer, of course. But Jack will be doing training camp stuff in Philly, staying with his aunt and uncle and cousins, helping out at "Uncle" Frank's gym to earn a bit of spending money before school starts. He won't be home, and Tommy vacillates between being proud that the kid is going off to a good school and thinking that he's really going to miss having Jack around.

He sighs, and his wife reaches for his hand as they walk into the lobby of the high school gym. "Stop fidgeting," she whispers.

He shoots her a glare, and then thinks better of it because she looks nervous, too. "All right, Mama Bear," he says, and slings an arm around her waist. "You're just dreadin' losing your baby."

She socks him, medium hard, on the bicep, and doesn't say anything. By which he ascertains that she is, in fact, on the verge of being really emotional. So he's got to keep it together. It's their longterm arrangement: they can't both be wrecks at the same time. He sighs again. Looks like it's his turn to man up.

Well, this is the first fledgling to leave the nest. Hard on the mother. Jack will be fine, he's sure of it. Kelly, maybe, not-so-much. He'll have to remind her later that Jack's a capable kid, sensible, the kind of person who takes care of everybody including himself. No need to worry.

This is an awards assembly for graduating seniors. There's a certain amount of silliness that goes along with graduation, silliness that those graduating seem to find grave and serious, as well as things that do seem to matter. For example, Jack's parents were informed ahead of time that he had already been selected to the short list of nominees for Student of the Year. That's another thing Tommy has mixed feelings about, as an undistinguished high school graduate. He'd gotten out of high school in Tacoma with a high C average and absolutely no after-school activities; he'd been too busy working all the hours he could manage, trying to make enough to swing the rent and the electric bill. Sure, he could have been a better student if circumstances had allowed. They didn't allow. It is what it is, and it doesn't matter now.

Tommy's so proud of what Jack's done with his opportunities he can hardly sit still on the bleachers. Even when his own father joins them there, or maybe especially then. As a parent, Paddy Conlon was a failure. He was a good conditioning trainer, yeah. A dad? Absolute shit. Most of what Tommy knows about parenting he's figured out from doing the exact opposite of what his dad had done. Sure, they're getting along okay lately, and Pop is certainly an enthusiastic grandfather, but that doesn't mean Pop was a good father back then.

_Let it go_, he reminds himself. _Just let it go. You're grown. That was then, this is now._

The same old usual crap goes on during the assembly: the acknowledgement of student government officers, the awarding of academic honors, yada yada blah blah blah. Toward the end of this, the principle finally announces that the school has nominated five students as candidates for Student of the Year.

They all sound like great kids. The principal mentions the activities they're involved in – athletic teams, academic teams, church youth groups, Scouts, student government. Bright, involved, potential-fulfilling kids.

But when the announcement is made, it's Jack. "John Tipton Porter," the principal announces, smiling, and there's a burst of frenzied applause and whistling in the student body. "In his time here at Taylor Allderdice, Jack has earned a GPA of 4.22, with accelerated classes at the magnet school, and he was named a semi-finalist for the National Merit Scholarship. Jack has participated in the concert band and the Academic Challenge Team, and served as a peer tutor for math. He's a three-sport athlete, running cross-country in the fall, swimming in the winter and playing on our state runner-up baseball team in the spring. He's an Eagle Scout, and this past year he captained not only the cross-country and baseball teams, but also the Social Studies ACT."

Kelly squeezes Tommy's hand, smiling. He squeezes back.

"In addition, on his own, Jack started and continues to run a summer program matching student volunteers with the YMCA daycare, giving high school students something constructive to do with their summers and allowing the YMCA to reduce their summer daycare costs and admit more children."

This might be the thing Tommy's proudest of, too. And it was all Jack, all his idea. They had thirty kids working down at the Y last summer. Amazing.

"He's a helpful person with high moral standards, and friends with everybody he meets. We're proud to announce that Jack will be attending the University of Pennsylvania next year, where he will play baseball and pursue his goal of becoming a psychiatrist." Another burst of applause, and even from this distance you can see how wide Jack's smile is in his pink-cheeked face, how he's both happy and a little embarrassed.

Playing baseball for UPenn in the Ivy League is probably not going to be a stepping-stone to Major League Baseball (in general? Ivy League athletics _suck_), but Tommy's still damn proud. Jack doesn't want to be a big-league ballplayer, he wants to be a psychiatrist and help people.

The principal steps away from the microphone and gestures for Jack to address it. "Jack, do you have a few words for us?"

This is a thing that would have scared Tommy utterly shitless at age 18, but Jack seems to have come prepared. _But, then, that's Jack_, he reflects. Bright and athletic and prepared - shades of his Uncle Brendan.

Jack starts out by thanking his teachers and school personnel, as well as his family, his Scout leaders and his youth group pastor, all very basic. And then he leans into the microphone from his 6'1" height and gets real. "I kinda jumped at the chance to say something today, because I might not get to say something to every person individually. It's just this: take care of each other." He shrugs his shoulders up a little, and although he's built like a young man, tall and lean and handsome in his contacts, Tommy can still see the eight-year-old in glasses in him. "It's easier than you think to make the world a better place. You just start with what's around you. You notice where things are broken or dirty or sad, and you do what you can."

He takes a deep breath. "I want to thank my mom, who has been there for me all my life, for teaching me to leave things a little bit better than you found them. She does that herself all the time. I love you, Mom." Jack grins, and Kelly smiles back but her eyes are wet. Tommy feels for the handkerchief he stuck in his pocket earlier today, expecting she'd need it, and hands it over.

And then Jack goes on. "And I want to thank my stepfather, who married my mom when I was eight, for giving me my life philosophy."

Tommy looks up, startled. _Jack's got a life philosophy? And I had something to do with it?_

Jack grins a little more. "He looks a little surprised right now, and I guess it's because I never said it out loud. He might have said this to me maybe once because he's not much of a talker, but he lives it out every day. Tommy taught me that love is something you do. It's that simple. Thanks, Tommy."

Jack goes on to encourage his fellow students to love people out loud, not just with words but actions, and the gym gets raucous with applause. Jack steps down, and the awards ceremony continues, and Tommy just sits there fighting back tears.

Out of Tommy's once-fucked-up life, something incredibly good has come. Who knew?


	2. Chapter 2: Love As Strong As Death

**FDTR: There Is Love that is as Strong as Death**

**More God stuff. If it bugs you, skip. However, also some NSFW stuff. (What? You're saying they don't go together? Sure, they do.)**

It's a Wednesday late-afternoon in early February, nasty wet chill in the air, and Tommy has just dropped Jack off at his karate lesson. He's got an hour and a half to kill before Jack's done, and he's also got a loose appointment to stop by and talk to Tack Bryant about this month's service project.

Tack has what he calls a "tiny desk" in his church's office, where he administers Bright Futures, his youth program. Tommy hadn't understood, when the group of former TAHS Dragons wrestling team members got together last November, that Tuck considers himself a missionary. Which is weird enough on its own – in Tommy's experience, missionaries live in China or Africa and run hospitals. But Tack is so... not-churchy. He's just a guy.

So Tommy walks down the street and over two blocks to Oasis, where Tack and his wife Melissa go to church. Like Kelly's church in Philadelphia, this one meets in a building originally meant to be something else. But there's a small sign out front, so he knows this warehouse-looking thing is the right place, and he opens the door to duck in out of the drizzle.

There's a platform at one end of the room, and lots of music equipment on it, amps and guitar stands and shit. Microphones. And about six people standing around on the stage, chatting and passing around printed pages. One of the guys sees him and comes over. "Hey, man. I'm Vince. Can I help you?"

"Um, yeah. Lookin' for Tack, is he here?"

"Think he's in a meeting right now," the guy says. "But he should be out in a little while. Have a seat, hang out. We're about to start a praise team practice session for Sunday so it might get loud in here, sorry about that. There's coffee if you want some." He points to a small table near the wall, with a coffeemaker and cups and stuff to go in the coffee.

_Praise team? Stupid name for a band_. "Nah, I'm good, man. It's okay if I just sit?"

"No prob, dude. He'll probably see you when he comes out, you won't have to go look for him." Vince, who's built exactly like a string bean wearing skinny jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt (what, exactly, is the deal with these contemporary church people and their flannel shirts?), smiles and heads back to the little stage, where the six people there join hands and and one of them prays out loud.

Tommy can't hear everything he says, but he catches phrases here and there, stuff about "let this practice be worship in our hearts" and "You're listening even if nobody else is" and "it's not about us, God." They're all so earnest, and deliberately sort of loose and casual. Which is, again, not the kind of thing he's used to.

Since January, he and Kelly have been trying to find a church where they're both comfortable. They've been to his childhood parish church; they've visited Sacred Heart (which intimidated the heck out of Jack, Tommy could see that). But the services feel strange to Tommy too, not so much reassuringly familiar as something he's outgrown. After the wedding ceremony, and Pastor Dave's spontaneous and heartfelt words, Tommy's starting to find a standard Catholic Mass a little... well... rote. Like it's easy to go through it without having your inside self really involved, not that everybody sitting in a pew does that, but that it's easy to just say words and not mean them. So for the past couple of weeks they've been visiting Protestant churches too. There was a Lutheran church, with a Sunday School class for the boys and music that Kelly knew. But even though the order of service wasn't familiar to Tommy, there was a similar going-through-motions feeling to that church, and he wasn't surprised when Kelly said she wanted to try somewhere else. The week after that they attended a Church of God service, and Tommy had been freaked the hell right out by the two-hour service that included multiple people babbling in a language that sounded made-up. He'd given Kelly a panicky look, and she'd returned it, and they'd crossed that church right off their list too.

He's not sure why they haven't tried this church yet, except maybe it was a feeling of not wanting to impose on Tack. And also that he still feels a little guilty that he's not a Catholic in good standing.

Right now, while he's waiting, the band starts to play, and they're pretty good. One acoustic guitar, one electric with all kinds of pedals and amps and shit, plus a bass and a keyboard. The first song isn't familiar, and Tommy doesn't catch all those words either, but the musicians are not singing to him. They're focused sort of – elsewhere. The words he does catch have to do with grace and calling on God and God is great. And something like "I am yours, and you are mine," which makes him think of Kelly, and that makes him smile.

They go right into something else, and this one he catches the first verse of:

_Everyone needs compassion, a love that's never failing_

_Let mercy fall on me_

_Everyone needs forgiveness, the kindness of a Savior_

_The hope of nations. _

Wow. Something about it is starting to catch at his heart, make him think of the way he'd felt after Confession last fall, when he'd finally, for the first time ever, let go of the pain of what Pop had done to Mom. All his anger and sadness and his feeling of being damaged. God had really been there then. God had been at the wedding, too, even without a priest, and he'd been there that one time Tommy'd gone running.

Maybe God's here now. Pretty wild. Tommy sits back in this horrible metal folding chair and checks his watch. No, he's okay, he's got almost an hour before he has to go get his kid.

The music stops, and there's some discussion on the stage, talking about running over the bridge again. In his mind, waiting for Tack, Tommy goes back to this morning, in bed with his wife, how sweet that is. Holding her, kissing her. Kissing all of her and feeling how they make this smooth, seamless whole when they're wrapped around each other. It's so beautiful.

Is it sacreligious to think about sex in church? Even if it's not even real church? Even if it's not just about his junk, more about the joining?

When the music starts again it's different. A simple melody, almost sad – no, not sad. There's something in it that – that pulls him. It's the same sort of longing he has for Kelly, for _his wife_, when they're away from each other. The incompleteness, that's what this music is about. And then the words:

_You won't relent until you have it all_

_My heart is yours._

_I'll set you as a seal upon my heart,_

_as a seal upon my arm._

_For there is love that is as strong as death,_

_jealousy demanding as the grave,_

_and many waters cannot quench this love._

That last part he knows, it's from Song of Solomon. It's one of the things Pastor Dave had him and Kelly both do in their pre-wedding counseling, read Song of Solomon. They found out pretty quick they couldn't read it to each other because things got too steamy, but he'd read it on his own – thinking about marriage, Jesus the Bridegroom, his people the mystical Bride, stuff he grew up hearing and stuff Dave said at the wedding.

The band's repeating those words, and he sits there thinking about his wife again, and how the ache of longing for her might go _through_ his junk, but it starts in the heart.

_Come be the fire inside of me_

_Come be the flame upon my heart_

_Come be the fire inside of me_

_Until you and I are one._

The music builds, making a buzz of sound in the building and a vibration in his chest as the rhythm becomes more driving and the voices more open. A tremor, unbidden, shakes him. This really is making him think of his wedding, and the night that followed – tenderness and longing and raging need. He breathes in, trying to calm his heartbeat. _Kelly. My love, my_ _completion._ He leans his arms on his knees, closes his eyes, and lets that ache for her sweep over him as the guitars and drums swell, and then pull back.

Just as he has started to shake off the ache, the girl at the microphone sings something new:

_I don't wanna talk about you like you're not in the room_

_I wanna look right at you_

_I wanna sing right to you._

She repeats it, and he suddenly _gets_ it, she's singing to God. The sudden sense that God really is here just pierces him. This is not a song about romantic love. This is a song about being the Bride. This is a song about the church wanting Jesus the way he wants Kelly. All the time, always, sweetness and wholeness and completion.

_**I am with you always**_, the Voice says in his head, and suddenly God really is with him the same way he was before, at St. Lawrence O'Toole. While he is praying, feeling caught up in the Presence, he loses track of the music, doesn't know if it even continues or changes or stops. At some point he registers an arm on his shoulders, but it's only when the Presence gently recedes that he opens his eyes and lifts his head, completely unashamed of the wetness on his lashes.

It's Tack, arm around Tommy and murmuring something that's probably a prayer. Must be, because Tack says, "Amen," and squeezes Tommy's shoulder. The 'praise team' is singing something else now, and some other time he'd listen because it's good, but right now he's still too amazed. Without meaning to, he makes a gesture with his hands, opening them up the way people do when they're explaining something. He doesn't know what he means, but it doesn't matter.

"Hey, brother," Tack says.

"Hey." He looks right into Tack's bright brown eyes and knows, yeah, he's another brother. They'd only been casual friends in high school, and what he knows best about Tack is superficial stuff. Like his real name is Tony, but as a toddler he'd apparently tried to tackle everything. The nickname had stuck (when your mom starts calling you by your nickname, there's no shaking it), and Tack had been a fireplug of a fullback on the middle school and JV football teams. He was a good wrestler, too, but bigger than Tommy so they didn't wrestle each other for practice. Tommy hadn't told him anything about life at home, because he hadn't trusted anybody but Brendan back then.

Maybe he'd been wrong to keep to himself so much. Keep it secret, protect, hide it... Right now, it's like Tack's looking right into his heart.

"Can I pray for you?" Tack asks, matter of fact.

"Yeah, sure. But Tack? It's all kind of good right now." This is where he and Kelly are meant to be. This is going to be their home church, and he's not worried about leaving the Church now, because if God is here Tommy hasn't really left anything.

Tack just nods, and for some reason Tommy feels understood although he hasn't said a word.

They talk about the project, and Tack introduces him to all the band members, and then he has to go pick up Jack. Which he does, not noticing the drizzle anymore.

And when they get home, Kelly's got dinner waiting, grilled chicken with herbs and olive oil, and enormous baked potatoes, salad and roast asparagus. The house is warm. Martin nearly bowls him over with a hug. Kelly pulls plates out of the cabinet, her brown curls bouncing as she stretches up to get them. Whirls around the kitchen pouring drinks and putting the ketchup and the pepper grinder on the table, her cheeks pink and her body moving with grace. He stands in the doorway and watches her, overwhelmed with how good this all is. Kelly turns around and tells them to wash up, it's time for dinner.

Instead of heading for the bathroom, he comes all the way into the kitchen and puts his arms around her, holds her close. She goes still in his arms, her body almost melting into his, and an echo of that ache is back. It can wait for bedtime, the need will only build. He kisses her forehead and lets her go.

"What was that for?" she asks, her eyes lit up despite the grouchy question. He doesn't answer, just smiles.

And dinner is good. And the boys go to bed on time. And as soon as they're in bed, he steers her into their bedroom, and closes and locks the door behind them. Kelly's eyes go big and then start to sparkle. "Did you take Bagel out?" she wants to know.

"While you were washing Martin's hair. Now come here, Doherty." He opens his arms and pulls her in, loving the way her nose fits into the hollow of his breast bone.

"What happened today?" she asks, softly. "There's something... I don't know, different about your face. You look so happy."

"I don't even know how to say it," he tells her. "I don't have the words. But it was good. And it had a lot to do with you, with us. With there being an us. Pretty damn awesome, actually."

She blinks, confused. "Okay."

"You are so beautiful," he says to her, because she is. Because she really is.

So it starts there, the loving. It starts with kisses, clothes on, lights on, in their very own house. Eventually it makes its way to kissing, naked, with only the bedside lamp on. He does what he wants to do.

"What are you doing?" she asks in a whisper.

"You mind?"

"No," she says, and by the breathy tone of her voice she really doesn't. "I like it. I just – why?"

"Every part of you I can reach," he says, and goes back to kissing down the length of her arm.

"I feel like Morticia Addams," she says, but she's almost laughing. And, he eventually discovers upon having kissed his way south, she is very excited. Very. Even her inner thighs are wet, and she's actually coming before he kisses her between them, with just a gentle touch of his fingers.

He'll never get tired of seeing that. It's beautiful. She's beautiful, and that long slow first slide of joining is so good, all over again. _You, me, one whole beautiful complete thing_, he wants to say to her despite how goofy it is. He takes his time, and they never stop kissing. It's sweet; it only gets sweeter as their bodies become slick with sweat and need, as the bed gets messier.

At some point he pulls out and goes back to licking her, making her desperate enough to thrash around on the pillows and beg. She starts decorous, just whispering _please_ and then _please, Tommy._ From there, it's_ please, I need you_ and then finally when she's saying, _please give me your cock, please_, the words tumbling off her beautiful lips and falling over each other and her hips moving anxiously on the sheets, _please, Tommy, please_, he can't resist any longer. He rolls to his back and pulls her on top of him, holding himself straight up so that she can sink down easily. And now they're both so insane with desire that it doesn't take long for them to finish, her first and him, finally, three seconds later, so deeply inside her while he holds her hips tight.

She leans forward to kiss him. "I love you," she says. "Can I just say? I love your mouth so much. I love your beautiful naughty decadent mouth." She kisses him again, little tiny kisses across his lips, and he lets her, trying not to smile. This is pretty awesome: she loves his mouth and she just begged for his dick, and it's not just the physical stuff but the physical stuff is, let's be honest, _fucking great_.

He probably shouldn't be saying fuck.

Oh well.

He gathers her up in his arms. Says, "I love you too. You know I'm gonna keep you up all night, right? We'll sleep in between times."

"Oh yeah?" she puts her hands on his face and kisses him, laughing a little for no reason at all. It's so good to laugh with her. Trust her, kiss her, take care of her, fuck her into the bed... it's just. So. Good. Marriage: so damn good.

"Yeah." He wants to tell her some poetry but he doesn't really know any. No, wait, he knows that bit from Song of Solomon, about love as strong as death and the floods can't drown it.

She strokes his hair and whispers that his kisses are better than wine, and that's Song of Solomon poetry too.

Marriage is damn good all night. Sleep is good too, but marriage is better.

**A/N: If you go looking for a Youtube video of "You Won't Relent," you probably want the Jesus Culture version. I think Misty Edwards originally recorded it, and the voices are better on that version, but the "I don't want to talk about you" lyric came from Jesus Culture. It's a beautiful, haunting piece of music.**


	3. Chapter 3 With All Due Respect, Sergeant

**FDTR: With All Due Respect, Sergeant**

**This scene, though short (well, for me!), has been haunting my mind for a long, long time now. Set in November the year after Kelly and Tommy are married. **

**On Veterans' Day in 2013, I'd like to thank my brother-in-law, Sgt. Fleischman, currently serving in the US Army, and my dad, who served as a petty officer in the US Navy in the early 1960s, as well as many other friends and family members.**

**Also, big thanks to my girl Miss Wynter, who is herself a military wife, for some clarifications.**

All three of them get out of the cab. Corporal Mark Bradford leans into the window to pay the taxi driver and thank him, but the cabbie waves off the fare. "No charge, and I thank you for your service. You boys have a good Veterans' Day."

"I appreciate that," Bradford says, nodding. Lance Corporals Diego Aguirre and Mason Stanley join him on the sidewalk up to the front of this nice brick house. They're on a three-day leave specifically to take care of this little self-assigned task, voluntarily scheduling vacation to do it.

Sixteen other guys had their lives saved in that AmTrac that night. Two of them wanted to come too but weren't granted leave. Some of them are deployed again. Some are no longer active; some are dead now. All of them are grateful. But Bradford's the standard bearer. He was the one who kept digging, kept trying to find their savior. He'd been the Marine closest to the hatch, had gotten the closest look – albeit a quick one in the dark – at the NCO with balls big enough to yank off a fucking _tank door_. Their eyes had met for half a second, and then the guy was just gone.

Been three and a half years since that happened. Feels like half a lifetime ago, and it feels like yesterday, too. Hell, yeah, Bradford's grateful. A Youtube video, even if the major news carriers picked it up and rebroadcast it during that first Sparta tournament, is not enough. We're talking Bradford's _life_ here. He's got a fiancée now, he's been promoted from Lance Corporal, and he plans to reenlist at least once more.

Bradford and Aguirre and Stanley flew into Pittsburgh this morning, checked into their hotel, and took a shuttle out to the VA Cemetery just south of town for a ceremony at noon. They'd kept their eyes peeled for the guy, thinking he might be there, but no luck.

Bradford's kept up with events concerning Tommy Riordan since the Internet was full of the story. He knows all the major newsworthy stuff, and he'd been so dumbfounded by all the crap that hit the news about the guy's family background that he'd even used FOIA to get access to basic service records. Just to know, to _understand_. Dude was a serious badass, too: besides his noncom officer status and combat readiness awards, he'd made black belt in the Corps' martial arts training program, and he'd earned commendations on his rifle skills. Bradford has something of an idea of how bad it must have hurt the guy to take a DD after ten years of service and four deployments, not to mention steady promotions.

Bradford might be a step away from stalking the guy, actually. But he's never contacted him directly, not until now. He'd written half a dozen letters to Riordan – no, _Conlon_ – while he was at Leavenworth, and never mailed them. He's written another couple since seeing Conlon wipe up the floor with UFC and Sparta opponents since, and never mailed those either. Because, honestly, Conlon probably deserves his peace. Bradford's still in two minds as to whether Conlon won't simply kick them off his porch.

It's just that Bradford can't let it go any longer. He's got things he needs to say, and since he hasn't managed to say them in a letter, here he is on a cold Veterans' Day, late on a Tuesday afternoon, standing on the porch of a nice family house in Pittsburgh, hoping the guy who saved his life will let him say them out loud.

And so here he is with Aguirre and Stanley, dressed up neat in green Service Alpha uniform with barracks cover (barracks covers chosen on _purpose_, even though they'd all had to dig theirs out of seabag and freshen them up, even though barracks covers are a pain in the ass to lug around on airplanes), hand up to push the doorbell button. He takes a deep breath and does it.

There's no immediate answer, and for the first time Bradford's starting to think he's fucked this up. What if nobody's home? He'd already checked at Conlon's gym, and he's not there. There are two vehicles in the driveway of his house. It's a school holiday, though, he checked that out too. Shit. He exchanges glances with Stanley and decides he'll ring one more time. But just as he's raising his hand to the doorbell again, there's noise inside, a male voice saying something like, "Maybe Tina brought the boys back early, I'll get it," and feet on stairs.

The door opens. It's _him_.

Bradford knows what he looks like by now, but all the same he's a little awed. Man is a fucking _beast._ Even standing barefoot in a pair of loose exercise pants, barechested and a little sweaty, a good and surprising three inches shorter than Bradford's 6'1", he's impressive. The eyes that look dark brown in photos are actually a dark gray-blue up close, and that surprises Bradford too.

Aguirre and Stanley are waiting on Bradford. "Staff Sergeant Thomas Conlon?" he asks.

They all watch as something like an invisible wall slams down behind Conlon's eyes. "Corps says I don't own that title."

This isn't going exactly the way Bradford thought it would, but _hell_. Has to be done. "With all due respect to the Corps, Staff Sergeant," he pauses and snaps his right hand up in a salute. The other Marines follow a split second later, holding the salute. "We think the Corps got it wrong on that one."

Conlon blinks twice and swallows. Nods once. He's clearly not going to salute back, and it's clearly fucking killing him not to, so Bradford drops the salute and the other two do as well. Now Bradford sees why he's closed off like this: The Corps did matter to him, it mattered a hell of a lot, and this tough son of a bitch is still holding on to a world of pain. He says, "I have to say that's inappropriate procedure, Corporal. I'm not a Marine."

"I disagree, Staff –"

"Don't call me that." Conlon shakes his head. "I don't own a rank. Don't fuck with the traditions, man."

_You can kick a guy out of the Corps,_ Bradford is thinking, _but that "Once a Marine, always a Marine," saying is true. This guy is gonna be a Marine till he's six feet under. _He takes a deep breath and says, "Noted."

They all see Conlon make his decision. "Come on in, then." He swings the door open and holds it, and they go inside, stepping carefully onto a nice rug and removing their covers. There are more footsteps on the stairs, and a woman comes into view. She's short and cute as a button, wearing a white sweater and jeans, also barefoot. Her curly brown hair has very obviously been mussed up to an extensive just-been-fucked degree, and judging by the immediate flush to Conlon's ears, they've been going at it upstairs.

Bradford hopes they finished. He thinks maybe they did, though, judging by the woman's pink cheeks and surprised but easy smile when she sees them.

"My wife," Conlon says, with a shy little smile in her direction. "Kelly – " He stops, and Bradford introduces himself and Aguirre and Stanley.

She offers her hand to shake – which is something Conlon hasn't done yet – and smiles bigger. "Did you guys serve with Tommy?"

Bradford opens his mouth, watching Conlon shift his gaze to the floor and shake his head, before saying, "Not exactly. We were in Iraq together." He pauses while Conlon reaches out an arm and pulls his wife in to his side. Well, so he's not saying anything; Bradford will. "He saved my life."

"Mine too," Stanley adds, quick.

"And mine," Aguirre chimes in. "And sixteen other guys. He saved us all."

Mrs. Conlon looks up at her husband and back at Bradford. She says, quietly, "This is the AmTrac thing, isn't it?"

Bradford nods. "I never got to say thank you, not in person."

Conlon looks up and says, "No need." He shrugs a little, looking embarrassed and pained.

"Yeah, there is. It's one of those things that bugs me at night, you know? I needed to do it. I redeploy in February, and I ain't goin' back over there without sayin' it. So." He looks right into Conlon's face and says what he said on that Youtube video three years ago, says it again because he needs to say it again. "You saved my life, brother. Thank you." He holds his hand out.

Conlon takes it. "Little enough thing to do. But... I'm glad. Glad you made it." He shakes Aguirre's hand, taking the thank you in stride with just a nod this time, and then he shakes Stanley's, nodding at him too. He looks a little puzzled. "What, you guys came to Pittsburgh just to say that to me?"

"Yes sir," Aguirre answers. "We're on leave."

Conlon shoots him a true NCO glare. "Don't call me sir, I was never an officer. I worked for a living same as you. And you're on _leave?_" They nod. "You guys are fuckin' crazy."

"It was the right thing to do, St- uh, Mr. Conlon," Stanley says.

"_Tommy,_" Conlon says firmly. "Call me Tommy. You want some water or anything?"

Aguirre and Bradford exchange glances. "We were kinda hopin' we could take you out for a drink, St- um, Tommy. Or dinner. We got a flight home tomorrow morning at ten."

"Back to San Diego?" Conlon asks, and Aguirre nods. Conlon shrugs his shoulders up, and Bradford can't help but notice the play of muscle. _Damn. Wonder what it would take in the gym to build up like that? Ask later, maybe. _"Well..." Conlon looks down at his wife, who nods back at him, serious and encouraging. "Well, you know, I don't drink now. Training. But I've been known to pound a Diet Pepsi or two."

"We were after the conversation more than the alcohol," Bradford explains. "So it's cool."

When Conlon looks back up, he's smiling, and it's a very charming and open sort of smile. "That would be great, thanks. Let me just go change, and we'll find someplace."

Conlon heads up the stairs, taking two at a time, and his wife Kelly watches him go with a little grin on her face. "John Wayne," she says under her breath, and shakes her head with obvious affection before she turns back to the guests. "You really came all the way here to say thank you to him," she says. "Pretty impressive."

"Yeah, well..." Bradford gestures, unable to come up with the words. "It mattered."

"I know." She grins, flashing a dimple. "I know, he's somethin' else, ain't he?" She mentions that her dad was a Marine and then thanks each one of them, very heartfelt, for their service. When Conlon comes back down in gray henley and jeans, swinging a beat-up Carhartt jacket over his shoulder, his wife grabs a set of keys off the hook by the door and tosses them to him. "Take the Charger if you want."

"Sure," he says, and leans over to kiss her; it's longer than a goodbye peck but not one of those embarrassing obvious fuck-me kisses. "Hey. Call Anthony for me and set up somethin', willya?"

Bradford, watching the girl's face, sees it go still. Sympathetic, almost. They are clearly crazy about each other. "For tomorrow?"

"Soon as possible," Conlon says. "So, yeah, tomorrow." He kisses her again, and smiles at her. "I'll text you, okay?"

She nods. Waves at the guys. As they're going out to get into Conlon's Charger (damn, Stanley's going to be enraptured for the next two weeks over the car. Well, it's a sweet car, Bradford has to admit), a minivan pulls up in front of the house and disgorges two little boys.

"Hang on a sec," Conlon says, getting back out of the car. The younger boy runs over to him, grabbing him around the knees.

"Where ya going, Tommy?" he wants to know.

"Out with some friends. Mind your mama, you hear me?" The kid – clearly no dummy, he's listening – nods vigorously. "And hug me goodnight, I might be gone when you go to bed." The kid, who might be all of five, squeezes Conlon around the neck and they smile at each other.

The other boy, taller and blonder and more serious, comes over to the car too, and Conlon sets the younger one down to hug this one and say goodnight. He introduces them as "my boys, Jack and Martin," and then introduces each kid to the Marines.

Jack shakes hands like a pro. The younger one just waves. Conlon says "See ya, baby," to his wife, who's come out to talk to the woman driving the minivan, and then backs the Charger out. Not five minutes they're pulling in to a local bar-and-grill type place called Wade's Pub. "This do you guys?" he asks.

Inside, it's all wood paneling, a long bar with one TV and plenty of little tables. There's a massive jukebox and a little dance floor, with two pool tables at the other end, and there are only a handful of customers. When they pick a table and sit down a waitress in black jeans and green polo shirt comes over to take their order. "Tommy! I don't see Kelly with you, guess you won't be hogging the jukebox all night," she teases, and Conlon grins at her.

It's a good grin, big and open, and for the first time Bradford notices how crooked his teeth are. Doesn't matter so much really, he's the kind of guy who pulls women without even playing for them. "Nope, it's guys' night," Conlon says, and then tells them the waitress' name is Niki. Niki takes their drink orders (San Pellegrino for Conlon, and a collection of local beers for the rest of them to try) and says she'll bring them some menus when they're ready.

By the time the beers are half empty, the mood's gotten almost celebratory; this is probably due to Conlon's starting to loosen up a little. Stanley's been telling stories, mostly funny ones, and he's good at it. Then he happens on one that really breaks the ice: he's talking about the rifle qualification course, how after some practice they were ready for qualification and Stanley had been so nervous he was missing shit right and left. The Primary Marksmanship Instructor, Neely, grabbed Stanley by the collar, pulled him up into the PMI's face and screamed, "Stanley! Relax!" before letting him go.

"Like I could relax _then,_" Stanley complains, but Conlon has practically fallen out of the chair laughing.

"Fuck, man," Conlon says, when he can breathe, "Neely is the _shit_, ain't he? He does that to at least one person in every group." In S Sgt Conlon's most recent outing on a firing range, he qualified as an expert marksman with a rifle and a sharpshooter with a pistol. Bradford looked it up.

Bradford's not so bad with a gun himself, but the point is: this guy had been a Marine's Marine, a guy who lived and breathed Semper Fi... until he imploded, spectacularly, and Bradford still doesn't get why. He's seen the ESPN interviews and read the print ones, and Conlon will discuss his childhood, at least in brief answers that, although not detailed, speak of pain and secrecy and betrayal, of the toughness it took to survive it. In every single one of the interviews Conlon turns aside questions about his Corps service, refusing to blame the USMC for a single thing.

It doesn't really come up until later, after they've told all the funny stories and the touching ones, after they've talked boot camp and living on base and being deployed. It comes after they've eaten and settled with their fourth round of beers and sparkling water.

It comes after Bradford names the other names for Conlon, the other sixteen guys he saved. It comes after Bradford tells him that some of those guys didn't make it home from the war, but that night they made it out of the AmTrac, every one of them for at least as long as it took to send a message of love to their families. "You saved them. They all sent us to tell you thanks. And I don't give a fucking shit what some ate-up JAG says, to me you're a Marine. You'll always be a Marine." He says it out loud to Conlon, and as goofy as it sounds, it clearly catches Conlon on the raw.

Conlon's looking down at the table, drawing pictures with his finger in the condensation left behind by their bottles, lips pressed together and his face closed up and tight again. "I couldn't save my guys," he says, very softly. Aguirre leans closer so he can hear. The pub isn't very full or very loud, but it's gradually filling up and there's a general level of noise now. "I couldn't save anybody who was in my charge. So it's good I was able to help you guys, but... I couldn't help my own. So it's like that don't even matter to me."

"It matters, or we wouldn't be here," Aguirre says. "What happened?"

Bradford knows, but hearing the details out of Conlon himself is another thing entirely. It's wrenching. Not because any of them are naïve enough to believe that fuck-ups don't happen, but because they've all been there, in that position of helplessness. Where you're up shit creek with no paddle and guys depending on you to save their lives, they've all been there now, and for an officer – even a noncom – it's worse.

For a noncom in charge of enlisted men, who'd lived and breathed Semper Fi, for whom the Corps was replacement family and who'd dealt with betrayal and loss in his real family, it must have been excruciating. Bradford knows that much.

Conlon gets done telling the story, still staring at the table, and by now they all know him, they know what's under the inked skin and the UFC money. They know. "Brother," Aguirre says, and he's emotional enough for his Hispanic accent to bleed up through the California. That hits Conlon hard, and he blinks furiously, biting his lip and not looking up. "Brother," Stanley repeats, and then Bradford does, and Conlon's fighting hard for his composure. The four of them sit huddled together, arms around each other, at this little table and just grieve. Nobody's eyes stay dry. And finally Conlon says it back to them, _Brothers. _

Little by little the somber mood dissipates. They shoot a round of nine-ball. When Bradford goes to get the check, Niki tells him that it's already been paid anonymously. She gestures around the pub. "It's Veterans' Day. People are pretty supportive of the troops around here. That goes for me too – so don't tip me." While Bradford's stumbling through his thanks, she grins at him. "My older sister went to school with Tommy. He's a really good guy."

About that time Conlon's looking at his watch and saying, "Dudes, sorry, but I get up at five in the morning and I turn into a pumpkin at ten pm. Need a ride to your hotel?" Bradford says _Sure_ for them all, and Conlon pulls out his cell phone. "Be home in awhile, baby," he says, voice warm, and Bradford thinks of his own girl in San Diego.

When Conlon stops the Charger outside the Hampton Inn near the airport, he gets out and thanks each one of them, with handshakes and then big manly back-slapping hugs. "Any of you guys ever need me, you call me," he says to them, and tells them his cell number. "I'm serious. Anything. Tickets to a fight... or you wanna talk, I'm there for you."

"Thank you," Bradford says to him, meaning _thanks for my life. Thanks for putting yourself on the line_. He leaves off the Staff Sergeant although he feels bad about doing it. He salutes again, and the two Lance Corporals join him, and Conlon just looks at them before nodding solemnly. Still following USMC saluting protocol.

But he smiles before he drives off into the chilly Pittsburgh night.

**I hope I got the USMC details right; if I screwed something up, please let me know. Research only goes so far. For example, apparently Marines are only supposed to initiate a salute when in uniform, and only to initiate a salute to an officer, whether the officer is in uniform or not. However, if I've read my research correctly they're not supposed to salute when inside, when not in uniform, and when wearing the "piss-cutter" garrison cap because it's not a proper cover (but I could be wrong about that, the document was a little unclear). And yeah, Bradford is definitely, and deliberately, not following protocol when he salutes Tommy.**

"**Stanley! _Relax!_" actually happened to a friend of mine while he was serving in the Army. (Apparently it didn't rattle him enough to keep him from getting his rifle certification.)**

**Court-martial transcripts are a matter of public record. And as I found out recently, the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program does actually exist. C'mon, you know Tommy was _all over that._**


	4. Chapter 4: Making Up

**FDTR: Making Up**

They haven't even been married a month when they have their first fight.

First married fight, that is. It's nothing like his parents' fights, of course. And nothing like the "You left me, you bastard/Oh yeah well is that any reason to be mad at me?" fight that tore them both up last summer, nothing like that... but it's a fight, all the same.

So it's January 18th, and Kelly is making miniature molten chocolate cakes for Tommy's birthday, in stubborn spite of the fact that due to his training diet, he won't be able to eat more than a bite of one. More than that, she thinks she's surprising him with it. But he saw the cookbook open last night when he came down for his last protein shake before bed, and then he found the package of that really good dark chocolate in the pantry, and he's not _actually_ dumb, so of course he figured it out.

Also, he's managed to leave the gym a little earlier than usual, and he came inside with Jack and Bagel, just coming back from an afternoon walk. He'd held his finger up to his mouth, motioning Jack to silence so he could slip in and hug her, but if Kelly had been paying the slightest bit of attention to Bagel she'd have figured it out. Bagel is doing his usual Dad's Home Dance of Joy, his toenails clicking in manic patterns on the kitchen floor.

Kelly is on hands and knees, digging in one of the lower kitchen cabinets and muttering things to herself over the Bon Jovi coming out of her iPod speaker deck. All kinds of cooking stuff is set out on the countertops and the kitchen is warm, and it's pretty clear she's making steak and baked potatoes for dinner. Which is nice. He's still not used to the way she fusses over him and cooks his favorite things, but he sure as hell appreciates it.

She's swearing. Apparently she can't find something, some baking pan thing she needs, and she's already worked up a level from "Goddammit" to "_Son_ of a bitch" while Tommy's been standing there watching her, so maybe it's time to let her know he's there and he can maybe help.

On the way down, though, he gets a little distracted by her beautiful round girly ass, taking just a minute – just one, just a little minute – to stare at it before putting his hands gently on her waist and saying, "Hey, need some help?"

She jumps, screams, bangs her head on the top of the cabinet and kicks back at him, catching him on the thigh rather dangerously close to the family jewels and generally going into panic mode all at once. He has to sort of haul her out of the cabinet onto the kitchen floor, and she actually takes a swing at him, sort of. It's more of a pushing-away motion than any real intent to hit him. "Goddammit!" she yelps, and curls up into a ball on the floor, her breath a ragged panting. Eyes closed, hands over her head. Protecting herself.

It's like a knife to the heart. He stands up, backs away to the door that goes to the sun porch.

Jack and Martin appear like wide-eyed rabbits in the other doorway. "Mommy?" Martin asks, fearful.

Kelly drops her hands from her head, wipes her eyes. "I'm okay," she says, but it's automatic, like she's in reassure-the-kids Mom mode, and Tommy saw _that _every fucking day of his childhood, every day that Mom wasn't laid up in bed too sore to move, that is. He feels... oh, a lot of muddled-up shit right now. _Anthony would push me on this_, he thinks, _push me to figure it out_... He feels frightened. And sad. Frustrated, even a little angry. Like a good thing is broken.

It's his birthday, and just like every single one of them since right before Mom died, there is no fucking point expecting something good of the day he entered the world.

Kelly heaves a huge sigh, warding off Martin's open arms as she gets up from the kitchen floor. "No, honey, I'll hug you in a minute. First one's Tommy's because I scared him." She comes close to him, eyes still wet, and holds her hands out. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You scared me, and I scared you back, God, Tommy, I'm so so sorry."

Anthony is in his head again: "Look at the facts, Tommy, look at what really happened, and then you can look at how they made you feel."_ I scared her and then she scared me back. _Nobody's fault, really. And nobody's hurt here. We are okay.

"I didn't mean to," he says out loud, and reaches for her hands. Pulls her close and wraps his arms around her, and her arms are going around his waist to hold him tight. Kisses the top of her head where she banged it on the cabinet.

"I didn't mean to either," she says into his chest. "I didn't mean to ruin your birthday, I really didn't. I wanted to do something nice, and I got all worked up about it being perfect, which is _completely stupid_ because perfect is just us being together anyway. I'm sorry, baby."

She's right. "It's okay," he says into her ear, and he means it now. "It's okay, I'm sorry too, I wasn't trying to startle you."

"I know. It was sort of a reflex. I didn't hurt you, did I?" she asks, and presses a kiss to his chest through his shirt. "When I kicked back."

"Another inch or two higher and we both woulda been really sorry," he says, starting to see what humor there is in it. "I think you should make it up to me."

"What, _now?_"

He looks over the top of her head to see the boys still standing there in the kitchen doorway looking worried. "Yeah, now. Let's get some boy hugs and make sure everybody is okay, and then I need to talk to you in private for awhile." He shifts her in his embrace so that there's room for the kids, and holds one arm out for Jack and Martin.

Who come into the group hug like it's a warm blanket, both of them needing the same sort of reassurance from Tommy as he needs from them: that everything is fine, nobody's mad or scared or hurt, that love wins again. But it does. Love wins.

And now he really needs her. "Hey, guys, you good now?" Two little heads nodding. "Angry Birds on my netbook? Or TV. I need to talk to your mom, and we need to not be interrupted. Got me?"

Jack nods. "Kung Fu Panda's on, Martin."

"Oh yay," Martin says, making a break for the family room without a backward glance. Thank God Martin never holds grudges, he's going to have a happy life.

Jack studies his mom carefully for ten seconds, but when she kisses him and says, "Go on, honey, we're fine," his shoulders finally relax that last quarter-inch, and he joins Martin in front of the cartoons.

And then Tommy can take his wife upstairs. He actually picks her up and carries her the last three steps because the need is starting to burn in him, not so much a need in the genitals as it is in his chest, in the back of his throat, a craving for that completeness. He closes the door behind them, locks it, and she turns on the radio. "Louder," he says, flashing her a Look, and she shivers. "You're gonna make noise. I want you to make noise."

He wants to toss her on the bed and rip her clothes off, but she's got other ideas. She's down on her knees, already tugging his sweatpants and boxers down, taking him half-hard into her warm mouth. He hears himself gasp, say, "Jesus, Kelly, _shit,_" and has to rearrange his stance so he won't fall over, because with only a few seconds of this he's fully erect and the need is clawing its way down his spine, tearing off the surface manners and leaving him nearly caveman.

Nearly. Because when he puts his hands in her hair, she opens her eyes and stares up at him, mouth full, and she never does that, never. She likes doing this to him, he knows she does because of the physical effect it has on her, but usually she's got her eyes closed, concentrating on what she's doing and letting his desire affect hers. This is different, and it feels porny, and he suddenly figures it out. "No," he tells her, pulling her head back gently and scooping her up to put her on the bed.

"No?" she repeats, trying to sit up.

"Not like that." He starts taking her clothes off first, as gently and quickly as he can, and then his own. "You don't have to – to placate me or soothe me down or, you know, fucking _defuse_ me like I'm a bomb. This is not about me, it's about us."

"What, so _you _can toss me on the bed and go down on me whether I want you to or not, but I can't go down on you?" She sounds just a tiny bit pissed off, but he lies down beside her, throwing his leg over her hip and kissing her.

"You _always_ want me to go down on you," he says. "I'm happy you do."

"Well, you like me on my knees," she counters, and then comes back to his mouth for more kisses, sweet and addictive just as the kisses have always been between them.

"I do," he admits. "But that just, I don't know, it felt wrong. Like you knew me inside out, but I couldn't touch you, and I can't stand that, baby. I have to know I'm holdin' your heart when we're doin' this together."

She raises herself on one elbow and strokes his cheek with the other hand, her eyes open as a winter sky. "I love you so much, Tommy." She leans to kiss him again. "So... just to get this straight... I can offer you sexual favors, just not if I'm scared of you when I do that?"

It makes him shake his head, _what the fuck? _

She tries again. "If I just want to make you happy, or if you're grouchy, you're not going to let me – oh, I don't know – give you naked massages or something?"

"Oh. Yeah, you can do that." This time it makes him smile. "You sayin' that was a birthday present?"

"Could be." She smiles back. "Could just be that I want you. And just so you know, I'm never scared of you."

With all this plain talk and understanding, instead of coming together in a rush as he'd thought that he'd want, instead of the thrill of making her writhe and cry out, now he wants them to take their time. He pulls her over on top of him, settling her on his chest, and lifts his chin so she can kiss him.

The kissing takes awhile, and the longer it goes on the more he's longing to sink into her, but he waits, caresses her back and breasts and her sweet ass with gentle hands. When her hips have begun to rock back and forth and her center, pressed against his abdomen, is heated and damp, then he nudges her up and back, lets her take him inside. They make twin noises of pleasure and relief, and she begins to move. It's a slow gliding ecstasy at first, and then her breath begins to come faster, she rides harder, and by now he's so sensitive to the way her body feels around and atop him that when she comes he lets go too, holding her hips in the right spot until he's finished.

"Kiss me," he whispers, and she does, her lips tender on his. She slips to the side, shivering a little, and he gathers her up into his arms. They lie together not speaking, her hands gentle on his head and shoulder, as time moves and the last of the late afternoon light fades outside the window.

Right on cue, his stomach growls, and she laughs out loud. "You gonna let me feed you now, Conlon?" she asks, affectionately.

"Yeah. You know what? Makeup sex is fucking awesome. Not that I'm gonna fight with you just to make up, but it _is_, you know."

She kisses him one more time. "Yes. I'm so glad you are the sweet stubborn foul-mouthed sex god that you are. And I'm really glad you were born."

So is he.

9 * 9 * 9 * 9 * 9

Their second fight comes two months after that, after Tommy's had his first UFC fight and Kelly has finally decided on the "real" curtains for the living room. Again, it's not much of one, but _her_ feelings at least are running high.

They've been making do with the set she had in Philly, although those are a little too short for these windows and were never very attractive to start with, but the new ones have finally come in and she decides to hang them one afternoon she's off work. She can do this, it's no trouble, she hung her curtains in Philly by herself and she can manage it. She's got two stepladders, she'll be fine.

Half an hour later the boys are home from school on the bus and she is not fine. She is getting frustrated. She'll get one side clipped onto the rings, and then the other will fall off, or if she tries hooking the curtains to the clip rings first, then they're too heavy for her to lift up and slide onto the curtain rod.

It's only when Martin looks up wide-eyed from his snack of grapes and cheese cubes and says, "Oooh, Mommy, that's a bad word," that she's forced to acknowledge that she is not doing so well after all. She gets down from the stepladder and goes to get a Martin hug; he's good at them and they help with her bad moods. Okay. She sends Martin and Jack up to do their homework at their own desks, out of the way of her cursing proclivities. Once more into the breach/up onto the stepladder, whichever.

She has just dropped the curtain again, for the sixth time, when the door opens and Tommy comes in, and she hardly notices because she is so goddamn pissed-off. She kicks the stepladder, and of course it hurts her foot, and she lets out a long string of curses, all _mother-fuckin'_ _ no-'count asshole_ and _goddamn prick _and _shitty son of a bitch_, too mad at herself and the ladder and the stupid curtain and the whole of creation to control it.

It takes hearing Tommy's laughter to get her to stop cursing. And then, he's laughing so hard – at her – that it just makes her madder. "Goddammit!" she bellows at the top of her lungs, and he actually falls over onto the couch, he's laughing so hard. "Aaaauughh!" she bellows, and starts to stomp past him, maybe to go out into the yard, just to not hear him laugh at her, she _fucking hates_ being little sometimes, but he grabs her as she starts to pass him, and pulls her down onto his lap.

"I'm not laughin' at you," he says, spoiling that by laughing more. "Why don't you _wait _for me, woman? You can't do that by yourself. That's a two-man job." She tries to get off his lap, but he won't let her. "You need me around. Admit it."

She got along _just fine_ without him when she was single, before he came along with his sexy tattooed bad boy body and his clever hands, and she's opening her mouth to say that when he slides one of those big clever hands behind her head and pulls her in for a deep passionate kiss, and then another one. And all that anger and frustration leaves her head and migrates lower, like _waaay_ lower, and it's a little shocking. She gasps into his beautiful mouth, and it's not helping that he's stopped laughing, he's too busy kissing her instead and slipping his hands inside her pants, and the angry frustration is now sexual frustration. "Oh my God," she pants against his neck, "oh shit, that feels good – " and then his fingers make their way between her thighs and she can't help it, she's closing her teeth on his neck to keep from begging him for more, right here in front of the curtainless windows. He tastes salty, all man, and now she wants him really bad.

"Boys?" he whispers, breathless.

"Upstairs," she gets out, and then he flips her onto her back on the couch, yanking off her jeans and then her panties, and he's muttering something in Spanish before settling between her legs and kissing her, caressing her with those insanely gorgeous plump lips of his, tasting her, and she grabs a throw pillow to keep from moaning out loud. She's about to come when he stops, and the frustration is about to kill her, but then he's solid and hard inside her, pressing her into the couch.

"Christ, woman, you feel good," he grits out between his teeth, giving it to her strong and fast, and she can already tell this is going to be epic. Not just for her, either, because he's starting to babble, _Oh fuck yeah_ and _me encanta tu coño ,_ and his arm muscles are taut – and she gets swept under by it, by the fireworks behind her eyes. And then he tucks his head into her shoulder and groans, letting all his weight come to rest on her.

"Can't breathe. Tommy, can't breathe," she says, fighting down her panic. _This is Tommy, and he might fuck me right into the couch cushions but he won't hurt me. _"Get off, can't breathe, dammit."

He rolls back onto his knees and pulls up his sweats (which never went below his knees in any case), looking flushed and masculine and powerful as she sucks in a good breath. "Wow."

"I know," he says, and grins. "Lookit that, out of the goodness of my heart I just fucked you out of your bad mood."

Which is the wrong thing to say to her today. She can feel her face go mad again, and his eyes get big as he tries to control his expression. "Whoops. My bad. Sorry." But all the time, he's struggling not to laugh, and finally he loses control of that corner of his mouth, it curves up, and the other one too, and he's grinning again, all across his face. "God, baby, that was really hot."

And just like that, her mad's gone again. Because it _was_, it really was. All the same, he doesn't need to be smug about it. She sits up and shoves at his chest a little. "Where are are my clothes?" He reaches an arm down to the floor and hands them to her, then kisses her. She kisses back, and he helps her put her underwear on.

"Kelly. Baby, please don't struggle with crap like this on your own, okay? It just makes you mad, and all you gotta do is wait for me to get home." He tilts his head on one side and then adds, more quietly, "C'mon, if I had to learn to take help, you can too."

Then there's noise upstairs, and Jack's voice saying, "I think he's home," and she rushes to put her jeans back on as the little feet start down the stairs.

"I'm sorry I laughed, though," Tommy says, quiet and apologetic. "I made it worse. Sorry about that." She rolls her eyes at him. "No, I am. It wasn't nice. It was funny as hell, but I shouldn't have laughed."

"Make it up to me later," she says in a Mae West voice, and after he's hugged the boys they hang the curtains together, and later he makes it up to her again, in bed, and all is well.


	5. Chapter 5: Captain of the Ship

**FDTR: Captain of the Ship**

**Set in late August of the year after the end of TLRH, just before the beginning of Sparta IV. Tommy has completed his first six-month contract with UFC for two fights, and is halfway through the second contract, with one fight in July, time out for Sparta IV over Labor Day weekend, and the other UFC fight scheduled for mid-November.**

It's Kelly who starts their third fight, the most serious of their first year of marriage and the one that might actually turn out to have the biggest impact on their life together. She doesn't exactly pick it with Tommy on purpose, not really, and in truth it's no more than a couple of snippy exchanges in front of other people. But this crap is getting old fast, and also she's scared. Worse, Tommy's not even listening to her.

Over the past two weeks while he's been cooped up at training camp with Frank and Paddy and Adam and Marcos, she's been back to doing the single-mom thing – which is okay, it's _fine_, she's used to that – and running around balancing kid schedules with her work schedules, and the grocery shopping and the house cleaning and the dog feeding and all that stuff. It's not doing these things on her own while Tommy's otherwise occupied that's bugging her.

It's not that she's left Jack and Martin with her mother and stepfather while she's flown up to Atlantic City a week before Sparta IV, instead of taking them on a little vacation before school starts. They visited Susan's family in Norton earlier in the summer, and they hit Hershey Park with Brendan and Tess and their girls last month, so it's not that either.

It's not that although she and Brendan have been deemed "essential support personnel" by Tommy's trainer/coach/manager team, they've had no input in how Tommy spends his time. Or that Brendan's not crazy about being away from Tess and the new baby for a whole week; he knew he would be, and Tess told him she'd be fine with her mother to help. Kelly freely admits that she doesn't know the first thing about nutrition and training of a professional athlete, and she knows that Frank is one of the best in the business, so it's not that.

It's not even that while they're all sitting around the conference table in the small hotel meeting room, with photos of Tommy and bio materials scattered across it, while the choice is being made as to which photo and bio will be submitted to the Sparta publicity guys for the roster publication, the printing of which is always delayed until the last minute to maintain its accuracy. Fighters do sometimes scratch at the last minute for injury, as Marcos had had to in the first Sparta. It's not that the photo Kelly likes best is not the one Frank and Adam like best (Tommy, as per his usual, doesn't care). The one they've chosen is the shot that makes him look like a 185-pound naked tattooed gorilla, a beast on the loose. But hey. They know what will go over well with the fan demographic. So it's not that either.

It is not even that right after Frank asked Kelly's opinion and she started to briefly state it, Adam started to talk to Frank right over Kelly's reply. Adam's young and he can get excited, and obviously he feels that the question a) has already been answered and b) is pointless to ask a mere dumb little _wife_. No. It's not even that.

It's that Tommy doesn't even know she's in the_ room_, much less that she's the only woman in the room, still less that everything she says is ignored. It's that she's starting to feel ostracized and purposeless, unless you count keeping Tommy happy at night.

Or it's partly that. And it could partly be the fact that she is already jumpy as hell about Sparta IV, what with the "Russian War Machine" Koba making a return to MMA, formerly torn ACL notwithstanding. It could mostly be, though, that she really doesn't want Tommy to be here. She's been hearing more and more lately about that lawsuit going on with the NFL, about the dangers of repeated concussions, and how football's governing body has seemed to ignore the issue over the years. She's tried to talk to him about it off and on all summer. He just looks at her with his forehead all crinkled up in disbelief and says, "I won't get hurt," and then he walks away, like she's crazy or something.

The item currently under discussion is now whether Tommy would be willing to play up his ties to the military for the proposed renewal of his UFC contract. When Frank looks at her, seemingly to ask her opinion, she starts to say that she doesn't think that would be a good thing for Tommy in light of his Corps experiences. But Adam cuts across her again, pointing out that camouflage items seem to be selling well lately, and if Tommy's going to have a good UFC career he might want to think about it.

She's a little annoyed at the way they all seem to either not hear or to disregard what comes out of her mouth. No, she's a _lot_ annoyed. And Kelly loses her temper. "It's only MMA," she says, acidly. "Of course the camouflage sells well."

It so happens that she has managed to make this incendiary comment into one of those inexplicable pauses in the conversation, so that everybody hears her being snarky. Everybody sees her failing to keep her mouth shut.

Tommy, whose head has snapped around to her general direction, is immediately pissed off, like she's insulted him directly. He snaps back, "Yeah, it's only MMA, it's only the thing that pays the bills. It's only my damn career, is all."

Kelly, supremely annoyed now, lets it loose. Since when is the fight world more important to him than she is? And since when is her regular job something to sneer at? "MMA doesn't pay the bills._ I _pay the bills. Out of _my_ salary. Yours goes in the bank, to finance stuff that is nice but that we don't need."

"Like the house? Like your car?" Tommy says, narrow-eyed and mean. The Corolla had finally bitten the dust in May, needing a new transmission. While she'd been researching sensible fuel-efficient sedans in Consumer Reports, he'd just gone off to the Dodge dealership and driven home a brand new black Charger with mag wheels, parking it in the driveway and dropping the keys into her hand. She absolutely loves driving the thing, even though it's an updated muscle car and drinks too much gas, and she loves it that he picked it out for her, so she didn't turn it down.

Apparently she should have.

"You know I love the house," she says evenly, scooting her chair back. "And the car. But I'd rather live in a dinky apartment and take the bus than have you get hurt _entertaining_ people, _dammit._"

Out of the corner of her eye, she registers Paddy's eyebrows going up and Brendan making an _uh-oh, here we go_ face. But mostly she's focused on Tommy, who's got his arms crossed and his chin stuck out, brow lowered. It's his Intimidation Pose, and she knows he's unhappy that she's not supporting him like a good little silent sports wifey, but how can she when she knows what's at risk?

"Why is it you always think I'm gonna get hurt?" he says, in that flat-out, no-bullshit voice he uses in arguments. "I'm not a kid. I know what I'm doin'."

"I know you're good at this," she says in the same tone of voice. "I know you're committed to Sparta, I'm not arguing that one. But I am not okay with renewing that UFC contract, and I've already told you why at least twice."

There's a brief pause, during which Kelly looks at her husband, lips pressed together and nostrils flared like he's trying to decide how much force to use to win this argument. "You tellin' me what to do?" He looks to the side and then straight back at her, and all of a sudden Kelly knows she has already lost. She can't make him do something he doesn't want to do, or stop doing something he's determined to do. He's a man, after all. He's lost the Corps, and he still needs some sort of proving ground for his masculinity, even though in her book he's met every challenge to it so far with resounding triumph.

"No," she says softly, resigned. "You captain the ship." He blinks once. "But what you decide affects me. And I'd like you to acknowledge that, I think I deserve that much."

His face relaxes the tiniest bit. And then she hears Brendan saying, "I think you guys should have this discussion in private."

Kelly might be something of an idiot when it comes to figuring men out, sometimes, but she knows Brendan's put his foot in it here. Tommy's just fought off an attempt to direct his course, he's not going to take kindly to another one. As she expects, he coolly dismisses both of them. "Later. We're discussing business now." And he leans forward to pick up and study the UFC contract they've been talking about.

Kelly looks around the room, seeing everyone except Brendan looking relieved to be back on a business footing. "Come talk to me in the hall," Brendan says to her, quietly.

"Okay," she says just as quietly, "_they_ sure don't need us."

Out in the hotel hallway several yards down from the conference room, with people walking past them from time to time, he asks, "Do you feel as much of a fifth wheel as I do?" She nods. It probably bugs Brendan more than it does her; she's a woman and as annoying as it is to be so marginal in a group of men, it's nothing new to her. Not only is she a woman, she's a small woman. Men tend to either check out her boobs or pat her on the head.

(Tommy might ogle her boobs, but he, at least, is entitled to. And usually he does listen to her, which is why it sucks so much that he's not listening when it really, really matters.)

She explains it, or tries to. "It's probably why I get abrasive and mouthy sometimes. I think it sometimes surprises people when somebody little like me gets stompy and yells. You know, they say George Washington never had to raise his voice to get people's attention – but he was 6' 4" when the average man was, like 5' 7". Tall people get attention. Short ones have to yell."

"Gotcha," Brendan says, and then, "Is it wrong that I want to mess up your hair now and tell you that if you wanted attention, Little Sis, you did good?"

They laugh together for a minute. A small group of people pass them, carrying briefcases and talking about net income. A door closes somewhere down the hall. Then Brendan asks her, "So why don't you want him to fight?"

She exhales. There are a lot of reasons, and she makes an attempt to go through them in a rational fashion, from trivial to crucial. "Well. Okay, I hate the schedule, right? I mean, it's nothing like if he was going to be deployed eight months out of the year, but it means I'm on my own while he's doing training camp and running the media gauntlet. Which, also, he hates and it always makes him grouchy as hell. Every time he does another interview, he spends the next week dealing with shit. He goes running for two hours at a time and he does daily counseling sessions with Anthony and he's been known to break a dish or two."

"Jesus."

"No, it's just dishes," Kelly says, waving her hand. "It's not people, and as far as I'm concerned if he wants to break every dish in the house instead of taking it out on himself that's fine. I'm not worried about it. But the media crap goes along with UFC, and I worry about him putting himself through the emotional wringer when he doesn't have to.

"And I know he's thinking about it as doing something he's really good at, and not backing down from challenges, and not wimping out on it until he's physically forced to. I _get_ that. I get that it's a masculinity thing for him, and let me be all girly for a minute and tell you that my husband's masculinity is about as precious to me as it is to him, okay? I treasure it, trust me on that. It _matters_. I get that."

Brendan's eyebrows are up and he's starting to smile.

"I didn't do a very good job in there," she admits. "Getting snarky for no good reason. It does bug me when those guys don't listen to me and Tommy doesn't notice. And yeah, I probably need to apologize for challenging him in public like that, it was just as disrespectful of me to do that as it was for all those guys to ignore me, but that doesn't make it right."

"Look, Kelly," Brendan says, "the only man in the room who understands anything about women is probably me, and I didn't even notice at the time. I see it now, but I didn't then, so I'm sorry I didn't say anything. I mean, Adam doesn't even have a girlfriend, and Pop's of that chauvinistic generation, and if Frank ever gets married it won't be to a woman. And poor Tommy's only used to Mom, who was a very shy and retiring person. Which you are not. Thank God. But anyway, I mean it's probably ignorance rather than deliberate insult, okay?"

She sighs. "I see what you mean. But I'm kinda over that now, you know? I bitched to you about it and I'm done. What's _really _killing me..." She's started to pace a little and gesture, unable to stay still. "Look, you know, it's one thing to put your life and your health on the line for something important. It's one thing for a firefighter or a cop or a Marine to choose to spend his life buying somebody else's and fulfilling a task that benefits society. It's a completely different thing to choose to risk it so that the guys who sit on their couches in their wifebeaters and_ fondle_ themselves while watching 'Roadhouse' can get _vicarious thrills _watching men beat the shit out of each other_ in a cage_."

This time Brendan does laugh, shaking his head at her. "Whoa, you are worked up. But seriously, 'risking his life'? It's not that dangerous."

She puts her hands on her hips (and wishes for taller shoes. Again.). "You can't be that naïve, Bren. I'm gonna say a list of names to you, and you're gonna tell me what they have in common." He tilts his head to the side and waits. "Tony Dorsett, Jim McMahon, Mark Duper, Junior Seau. Chris Benoit. Sugar Ray Robinson. That's a short sample of a long list. Ring any bells?"

Brendan shrugs. "Football players mostly. WWE guy and a boxer. Junior Seau, didn't he kill himself?"

"Yep. And after they examined his brain they found clear evidence of CTE, chronic traumatic encephalopathy. Caused by repeated head injuries. All those guys have symptoms of CTE." She starts pacing again. "Memory loss. Balance problems, muscular deterioration like Parkinson's and neurological damage like ALS. Depression, irritability, aggression, suicidal/homicidal tendencies. Increased likelihood of substance abuse. Dementia and confusion." She stops pacing and puts her finger on his chest. "And the _worst_ part of it is that it doesn't show up until anywhere from five to fifteen to twenty years after the head injuries."

"So you think you're fine, and then you hit fifty and can't remember where you live?" Brendan says, sounding queasy. "Or you commit suicide?"

"Or say you're Brett Favre, age 44. He doesn't remember his daughter's recent soccer season." She looks at Brendan head on. "There are other factors they haven't pinpointed with CTE, and repeated concussions aren't a guarantee that it will develop, but traumatic brain injury is the common denominator. Groups of people with the greatest risk factor include athletes in the sports of boxing, football, soccer, equestrian sports, professional wrestling, and mixed martial arts. Also? Military veterans, people with epilepsy, and victims of domestic abuse."

"You've been doing your homework," Brendan says, clearly chilled.

"You have any idea how many concussions Tommy's had?"

He shrugs. "I know there was one when he was little, maybe eight years old – Pop was so drunk he didn't even remember shoving Tommy into the doorframe. And then Sparta last year, and he thinks now that maybe he had one in Iraq due to the bombing."

"That's not all, the answer's six. And you know Tommy, if he's going to bother to answer a question he'll be honest, but he might not remember them all. I know for a_ fact_ the six times didn't include possible sub-concussive events like the time he let that kid hit his helmet with the baseball bat, and it cracked the helmet." Frightened tears sting her eyes. "I am just terrified that he's someday going to lose the thing that makes him _himself_, when he's fought so hard through all that pain to just be normal. That he'll turn into someone else entirely.

"I'll stick, you know," she assures Brendan, sniffling. "I won't leave him if it happens. I just don't want it to happen. I could not give a hundredth of a fucking shit about his UFC career, I want him to have his whole life. His _whole_ life, as he was meant to be, because Tommy as he was meant to be, normal and whole and healthy, is the greatest good thing I can even imagine. I want it for me, but mostly I want it for him."

Brendan is quiet a minute. Then his eyes go past Kelly's head and he blinks. "You talked to him about all this?"

"I did, but not so bluntly. I didn't want to scare him. I just said I was worried about the possibility of further traumatic brain injury, given what's coming out of those lawsuits against the NFL recently. I mean, Sparta opens in two days and he's not gonna back out now – I don't think bringing it up in so much detail is a good idea at this point. After, yes. I mean, he's always said that he knows he won't be doing this forever."

"I think maybe you don't have to bring it up now," Brendan says, still focusing on something down the hall.

Then she _knows_. That door closing a few minutes ago, that was Tommy coming out of the conference room. He's heard all the scary stats already, he's heard her worried sick about him, and she's pretty sure he's not going to take it well.

"I'm gonna go back in the conference room and have a word with the insensitive dickheads in there," Brendan says. He sounds grim. Kelly can't imagine him calling his own father an 'insensitive dickhead.' But she doesn't stop him walking away.

She's not ready to turn around, but she's prepared, so the sudden presence of a large warm hand on the back of her neck doesn't startle her. She knows the weight of it, its gentleness. "So that's what's really botherin' you," Tommy says behind her.

"Yes. And I apologize for being rude in there."

"Don't worry about it, we were being rude to you." His thumb sets up a little circular caress on the side of her neck. She still hasn't turned around to face him – too chicken, she guesses. Not that he would hurt her, ever, but once she says what's in her heart, it might cause a rift in their togetherness. In their Us-ness. It still has to be said.

In a minute.

"So you heard all that."

"I did." And now he comes around her, but leaving that hand gentle on the back of her neck. Tilting her chin up with his other hand. "I think maybe I didn't know how serious the consequences were," he says softly. "I know I didn't get it that I have other risk factors too."

"I really didn't want to scare you," she confesses, finally looking him in the eyes. Those beautiful ocean-deep eyes of his... his face is serious but not scared.

"I have a contract," he goes on. "I'm committed to Sparta like you said. And I have one more fight on that second UFC contract, which I would need a very good reason, like an injury, to get out of. But maybe you're right. Maybe that should be the end of it. Go out on top like Michael Jordan." Then he smiles. "Like Brendan Conlon, too."

"I'm not going to tell you what to do," she says, sort of scared at the demand she's about to make but knowing that if she's going to be true to herself she has to make it. "If you decide to keep on, that's your choice. I will be a fucking nervous wreck the whole time, but I will be there for you. I'll come to the fights. I'll keep my mouth shut through the hospital visits afterwards. But I will tell you this: I absolutely... I _cannot _imagine putting myself through a pregnancy while you are putting yourself on the line like this. I am not going to consider having another baby while you're still fighting. I can't. I'm sorry. I just can't do it."

He blinks once or twice during this little speech, but his face doesn't change. He's silent a minute. When he speaks his voice is still soft and calm. "That's fair enough. I've always known I wouldn't have long to do this. I'm thirty-one already. And you're right. It's not worth it, to put the rest of my life at risk for a couple million bucks when we're already set for money." She puts a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat under it.

"So you got it. That last UFC fight is, like two and a half months from now, assuming I'm fit after Sparta, and then I'll be done. That suit you?"

She can't talk, her voice will croak. He has to be _sure_, though, she doesn't want to push this. She nods.

"I got the whole rest of my life to walk around with this brain, and it sure as hell needs to be in good enough shape to last. You married it. I gotta take care of it."

"_Think_ about this," she warns him. "Don't just... don't do it just for me. You'll resent me."

"No. You're right. It's time to put this away. Almost time," he amends. "I still got some ass to kick. But I think I'm ready for it to be over."

It's only then that she can relax her shoulders, lean her head forward onto his chest and let the tears come. He is who he is. She is lucky.

"I love you," he says into her ear. "How,_ how_ does this even happen? How am I lucky enough to have you? It's not anything good I did."

"Wrong," she says, but then he's kissing her, softly, and there will be no crack in their Us-ness. Us is solid.

"The captain should consult the navigator more often," he says. "Because the navigator knows what the hell she's doing. And she should trust that."

"Aye, aye, captain," Kelly agrees.


	6. Chapter 6: Almost as Good as Mom

**FDTR: Almost as Good as Mom **

**Set approximately 15 months after the end of TLRH. Jack is sick, Kelly is pregnant, and Tommy is out of his comfort zone. This one's for analuziamira - thanks for the suggestion!**

It's a March Monday when Tommy gets the call from the school. "Boss!" Fenroy shouts to him from the front desk. "Phone. Line Two." Tommy drops the jump rope and heads up the stairs to the office to answer it.

"Mr., uh, Conlon? This is Ms. Tabor, the nurse at Fisher Lane Elementary."

"Uh, yes, ma'am." _What's wrong?_

"I wasn't able to reach Jack's mother, but he's in my office now and he's vomited twice. According to school policy, he needs to go home. Can you come pick him up?"

_Great, vomit._ Tommy's had plenty of experience with puking enlisted guys, although most of them were either drunk or had pushed themselves too far in PT. Experience with puking children, not so much. Okay, zero.

Pop had never, to Tommy's knowledge, puked while drunk. He's always assumed that Pop was just a champion drinker, knowing how much he could put down and how fast. Brutally efficient, that was Pop. Efficient and brutal.

He shakes it off. "Yes, ma'am, his mother's working right now. I should just come to the front office?"

"That's right, check in at the office and they'll point you to the nurse's room."

It's going to be okay. Since Tommy has officially retired from professional MMA fights, he's taking a few classes in business and physiology at the community college. When he's not going to class and studying, he's at the gym, working out some and handling his two personal-training clients, neither of which are fighters. So he has time to do this.

He can handle this, no sweat.

At the elementary school, the elderly secretary, who still wears her white hair in a poodle-looking do, goggles at him. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm here to pick up Jack Porter. The nurse called me?"

"Oh, of course." Mrs. Brumfield comes over to the desk and asks for his ID, then shows him where to sign Jack out and points him to the nurse's office.

Tommy knocks on the open door, eyes already scanning the room for Jack. "Hey, buddy," he says, seeing Jack's anxious face on the cot.

"Mr. Conlon?" the nurse says, and then almost does a double-take at his tattoos. He should have tossed a sweatshirt on over this tank top, but it's warm outside for the end of March and he'd wanted the sun on his shoulders. He nods. The nurse is youngish and blondeish – and the way she bites her lip as her eyes go from his face to his thighs makes him wary enough to want to get the hell out of there.

"Can I take him now?" Tommy asks, gesturing to Jack, who in the dim light looks sort of green.

"Oh. Oh, yes. There's a bug going around – he's the sixth kid I've sent home today. Now, he's got a fever of 102F, so he feels pretty bad, but it's probably just a virus. All the same, everyone at home should be washing their hands a lot to avoid getting those germs." The nurse picks up Jack's jacket and backpack. "Try to keep him hydrated, and of course he can have ibuprofen or acetaminophen, or if he keeps vomiting he can have the nausea relief medication..." she talks a little bit longer, but Tommy's tuning her out to look at Jack.

"Let's go home, buddy." Jack starts to sit up, then subsides back onto the cot. "Can you get up, Jack?" Tommy asks, letting his voice go soft.

Jack shakes his head. He looks close to tears. "Gonna throw up if I sit up."

"It's okay. Better out than in," Tommy tells him, and looks back at the nurse, questioning. She points to a door in the corner he hadn't seen, so Tommy scoops Jack up and carries him into the small bathroom, and holds his head as Jack retches over the toilet for several minutes. "Yeah, it's okay. You're gonna be fine," he tells Jack, helping him wipe his mouth. He wets a paper towel to put to the back of Jack's neck, and then he realizes Jack is shivering. "Bud, I'm sorry you're feelin' bad."

"I want my mom," Jack says, and he's trying not to cry, sniffling.

"Yeah, I know," Tommy says, and gathers Jack into his lap, there on the floor. "I know. Sometimes I still want my mom, when I feel bad." Jack turns his hot little head into Tommy's shoulder and rests there for a minute, all of him sort of boneless and floppy in Tommy's arms. "Your mom's pretty good to have around, though."

"Uh-huh." Tommy puts his cheek down on Jack's mussed-up hair. "Your mommy, did she die?" Jack wants to know.

"She did. She was sick."

"Were you sad?"

"I was really sad," Tommy tells him. "Come on, let's go home."

Jack nods. Tommy stands him up to put his jacket on him, and then he carries Jack and his backpack out to the truck, nodding thanks to the nurse and the secretary. He hands Jack an empty plastic container that used to hold protein shake mix and tells him to make a mess in that if he needs to. Jack nods again, pale and silent, and Tommy drives home as smoothly as he can.

He carries Jack inside, too, and arranges him on the couch in the family room near the TV, with a quilt over him to keep him from shivering. Bagel, who sometimes goes to the gym with Tommy, was lazy this morning and stayed home, but now he comes right in and jumps up onto the couch with Jack, nestling near his legs and resting his head near Jack's hand.

"Good boy, Bagel," Tommy says softly. Bagel, who typically barks sharply when anybody says his name, merely makes a quiet whining sound and puts his head back down on Jack's leg. "Jack, I'm gonna get you some ginger ale and Tylenol, okay?"

That was what Mom had always done – ginger ale or weak tea with honey in it. Tommy doesn't even like ginger ale; he calls it "the sick drink" and never consumes it unless he's recovering from some stomach thing. Which, since he gave up alcohol and got serious about his diet again, hasn't happened to him often.

When he comes back with the ginger ale, Jack takes the pills one by one and then looks up at Tommy with big suffering-kid eyes. "Can you take this away?" he asks, holding out the protein-shake container. "It smells bad."

"Oh," Tommy says. "Yeah. Yeah, that does have a weird smell. Lemme go see if I can find something else."

"Mommy usually keeps an empty plastic ice cream bucket in the upstairs bathroom for throw-up," Jack says, his voice very tired but all the same his usual precise, adult-in-a-little-kid's-body voice.

"Your mom is very smart," Tommy says, and goes to look. Yep, there it is, right under the sink. He brings it downstairs and hands it to Jack, removing the offensive, smelling-like-soybean-powder shake container. "You wanna watch somethin'? I'll stay here in the room with you, okay?"

"I want to go to sleep," Jack says, and takes off his glasses. Hands them to Tommy. "Can you put those where they won't get broken?"

"Sure."

"Thank you," Jack says, sounding more tired. His eyes droop closed, and Tommy thinks he actually goes to sleep before Tommy has even stirred a step to put the glasses on the coffee table. Poor kid.

Tommy goes upstairs and grabs a clean long-sleeve tee, because it's chillier in the house than it was at the gym. Then he goes back out to the truck and grabs his own backpack, with textbooks and laptop, out of the back seat. He sets everything up on the desk in the family room and starts on a Management class assignment, reading and answering questions, looking over at Jack from time to time. Martin ought to be home on the bus soon, too. He'll have to watch the time and keep exuberant Martin from waking up his big brother.

Jack sighs and snuggles deeper into the couch, and Tommy has to fight down his amusement - t_hat couch_. It's the same couch he first made love to Kelly on, and they've put it to the same use probably hundreds of times now. Probably they ought to replace the upholstery.

Kelly, he ought to call Kelly about Jack.

He dials the Orthopedic nurses' desk directly, knowing that this is a quicker way of getting a message to Kelly than her own cell phone. It's Samantha who answers the phone, Sam who's got two kids of her own, so he tells her he just wants Kelly to know what's going on, and that they might need another bottle of ginger ale and some saltines when she gets home. Sam's sympathetic, and asks if he needs anything. "No, I think we're good right now. He's asleep."

"He's a sweet boy," Samantha says, and Tommy agrees, a little surprised at the fondness in his own voice. Jack's a great kid. Martin too, but in a different way.

"Hey, is Kelly feelin' okay?" he asks. Kelly's only been working in the Orthopedic department for a couple of months, having been transferred there upon reporting her pregnancy. She says she's lucky, a lot of hospitals wouldn't make any allowances at all for a pregnant nurse, but since she has her ortho certification she's been on the list to rotate into the specialty department. They're going to give her a trial there that coincides with her pregnancy. She's also made sure to tell Tommy that the only real risks for her at work would be dealing with chemotherapy, which she wouldn't be doing anyway, and certain infections, which might be an issue in the ER.

"She's been fine," Sam says. "Morning sickness seems to be going away."

"Oh good." Because honestly,he feels bad about that part. All the other changes to her body, those are sort of fascinating. The nausea, not so much. "Thank you, Sam."

Ten minutes later there's the chuff of hydraulic bus brakes out in the street, so Tommy goes out the front door to get Martin – who looks worried. "Where's Jack? He wasn't on the bus," Martin says, and Tommy explains about Jack being sick, and Martin tiptoes in. "I want snack."

"Okay, let's go in the kitchen." Tommy gives Martin a couple of celery sticks with peanut butter and raisins, while Bagel pads clicky-toed around the kitchen, sniffing for crumbs. They talk a little bit about school while Martin eats, and then he goes upstairs to play Legos.

Jack sleeps all afternoon. Tommy does a load of laundry, checks on Jack sleeping, checks on Martin playing, finishes his own homework, and sticks one of Kelly's prefrozen lasagnes in the oven for dinner, so it'll be done when Kelly gets home.

It hasn't been a tough day, but all the same he's glad to turn over the nurse duties when Kelly does get home, coming slowly through the front door and closing it quietly behind her.

"Hi there, Mama Bean," Tommy says to her, quietly, taking her purse and putting it on the floor so he can hug her. "You look tired."

"Mmm," she says, closing her eyes and resting her head on his chest. "Yeah. I'm tired."

"You wanna quit for awhile?" he asks her. "You don't _haveta _keep workin', you know. I think I can swing the household expenses." He's teasing, a little – his residuals from endorsements are more than enough to pay the bills, and there's some money coming in from the gym now too. That's leaving aside his fight money.

"It'll get better. If I feel worse I'll consider it," she says, and, "_Mama Bean_, seriously?"

"I thought it was cute." He does, as a matter of fact. They can blame Martin for that one, really – a couple of weeks ago, right after they told the boys they'd be getting another sibling, Martin wanted to know how big the baby was.

"About the size of a lima bean," Kelly had said, demonstrating with her fingers.

"Oh." Martin had leaned over to her stomach and yelled, "Hi, baby bean!" right at it. And since then he calls Kelly's tummy the "belly bean," and the baby in it "baby bean," and it is all so damn cute Tommy can't even stand it. Thus, Mama Bean.

Kelly smiles, shaking her head. "You are nuts," she tells him, affectionately.

"Mommy?" Jack asks from the couch, and she goes to soothe him and take his temperature. She makes him drink some more ginger ale, and then the oven timer goes off, and they eat a quiet dinner while Jack watches Discovery Channel. The rest of the evening is like most of their other ones, domestic and nice, and at some point Tommy finds himself thinking what a _great_ house this would have been to grow up in. And how sucky it was that he didn't get that, back when he was a kid. When he needed it.

There's a sudden rush of emotion, all kinds of bad stuff clotted up, in his chest. He can feel Kelly's eyes on him, but he uses that trick his first therapist, Kevin, showed him, where you feel all the bad feelings, clutch them up tight like a teddy bear, and then you let them go. _Let it_ _go. Let it all go,_ he says to himself, and stretches his fingers out, to let the bad shit flow out. He's getting used to doing this. It does help – doesn't change the past, of course, but it lets him appreciate how good the now is.

Later, Kelly has fed poor starving Jack some saltines and more ginger ale, and tucked him into his own bed with more acetaminophen and the Official Throw-up Bucket, and left his door open so he can yell if he needs something. Then she's given Martin a bath and tucked him in while Tommy cleaned up the kitchen and after that, _then_ he can snuggle Kelly up on the couch (ha, this couch). He rubs her head for her while they're watching Big Bang Theory, which he often still doesn't get, and the next thing he knows she's gone about as boneless as Jack did earlier in the day, asleep on him. Ah, early pregnancy.

She says it's easy, it's going well so far. It'll be another month or two before they can find out whether it's a girl or a boy; he's not sure which he'd rather have. One of each would be perfect, actually, but according to Brendan, whatever you get is so perfect that you can't imagine it any other way. And that makes sense.

He eases Kelly down onto the couch and takes Bagel for his nightly constitutional, having a last few minutes of Bagel love – ear scratching, doggy licks, mutual adoration. Then he goes around the house securing the perimeter: making sure everything is locked, making sure the dishwasher's started. He wakes her up, chivvies her upstairs and into her nightgown. She's too tired for lovemaking tonight, and that can wait.

But as he's on the verge of sleep himself, curled around his wife, who's curled around the baby bean, Kelly murmurs something.

"What? What did you say?"

"I said, Jack says you are almost as good as me at taking care of sick people. Which, given the way he clings on to me like a little monkey when he's sick, that's sayin' something. You did good, papi."

"Don't speak Spanish to me unless you mean it," he whispers back to her.

"I mean it," she says, and turns in his arms to kiss him.

**A/N: YES YES YES, Kelly is pregnant. Keep yer britches on, more chapters exploring this development are coming!**

**And HEY. Everybody needs an Official Emergency Vomit Bucket. The empty gallon ice cream thingies work great.**


	7. Chapter 7: Miracle

**Farther Down the Road: Miracle**

**Set in early February, approximately 13 months after the end of The Long Road Home. Fluff. And lemons. (Come ON, could there be any other way this chapter could be? )**

"Had to have been your birthday. That's the only timeframe that makes sense, given my cycle and the week you were in New York doing that Eastbay photo shoot," Kelly says.

"You're sure?" he wants to know. This is something he's wanted for a long time. Longer than a long time, even, and it's the want making his voice unsteady. She puts her hand on top of his, warm and gentle.

"No," she says, patiently. "Not _sure, _but I think so. And we'll find out soon enough." She gets off the bed and goes into the master bath. She leaves the door open while she opens a small box and then rips the packaging off this white plastic stick thing.

"Can I see?" he asks, and she laughs.

"If you really want to watch me pee on this thing for five seconds, you're welcome to, because the whole baby-production process is only going to get more graphic from here on. But that's _it,_ that's the entire procedure: pee on the stick and wait. It's not like we got a meth lab going on in here."

He doesn't mind the teasing. "Yeah, no, I don't need to watch you do that."

She leaves the door cracked open. "Hey. On your cell phone – set the stopwatch thing for three minutes and start it when I say go, okay?"

"No problem."

Over the noise of the toilet flushing and the sound of her washing her hands in the sink, she says, "Go," and he hits the button.

"I don't know why I'm so nervous," he says as she comes back into the bedroom and sets the plastic stick thing down level on the dresser.

"I might not be, you know," she warns him, but he leans over to kiss her. They kiss through the whole three minutes' worth of time, and she puts her hand on his face, and life is good. It will still be good even if she's not knocked up, because they'll have another month to try, and more. No biggie.

Assuming his boys do their job, always assuming that. She had her IUD removed in late December, so they also have to assume that _her _body's doing what it's supposed to.

The stopwatch beeps. She pulls back from the kiss, slowly, and he reaches for the phone to shut it off. "Now what?"

"We see what it says."

Neither one of them moves.

"You know," she says softly, "the first time I took one of these I sat there holding it with my eyes closed, because I was too scared to open them and look at it."

"Yeah?"

"And then when I did look the top of my head got cold, because all the blood was rushing to my heart. Because it was irrevocable. My life had already changed by the time I knew it had."

"And you got Jack."

"I got Jack," she agrees. "Which was _awesome_. So. You wanna look?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he just gets up off the bed and walks three steps to the dresser, to pick up the plastic stick and look at it. It has a little square window with a blue vertical line in it and a slightly larger round window with a blue plus sign in it. _Plus would be for positive, right? _

The top of his head goes cold, just like she said. His life has already changed. There's a _baby_ inside her. His baby. Their baby.

"Well?" she asks, from the bed.

He walks back to her, turns the stick around to show her. Their eyes meet, and hers go sort of misty. And then she smiles. Holds out her hands to him. "Congratulations, Daddy," she says very softly.

And then he's holding her, to control his own shaking, and putting his head on top of hers, so her hair will soak up his tears. "I love you," she says, and when he pulls back to look at her she's crying and laughing at the same time.

"We made a baby," he says, awestruck. And then it hits him again, how _great_ this is, and what a miracle it is, and how idiotically excited he is about an occurrence that strikes thousands of unmarried careless teenagers every single year. Every month, maybe. He just turned thirty-two years old, and he's made a baby with Kelly.

_Thank you._

It's a deep whisper in his heart. Thank God, thank the universe, thank biology, thank whatever, but thank you.

"Let's not tell people just yet," she's saying, "not yet. Things can sometimes go wrong, although I haven't had any problems in the past. Let's wait another month at the very least." He's not sure he can keep it a secret – especially from Brendan, because, you know, it's _Brendan_, and if he elbows Tommy and casually says, _Hey, what's new with you?_ Tommy's probably going to crack.

It is probably a good idea that they waited until the boys were off to school before doing this, too, or he'd already have told them. He's definitely going to be skipping class today. Kelly's off today and the next two days, so they can actually stay home together and just... well... in fact, right at the moment he's starting to think that he wants to be as close to her as possible. Like, _naked_ close, as close as he can possibly be to that little spark of miracle growing inside her.

She seems to see from his face what he's thinking, pulls his mouth down to hers.

"Please," he whispers against her lips, trying to find more words and not coming up with any.

But it doesn't matter, because she says, simply, "Yes."

It starts sweet. Tender, appreciative, gentle, warm, and then at some point the warmth turns into some kind of blazing heat, an undisguised raw animal need that pretty much shuts his rational brain off. He's running hot on testosterone fumes, burning everything into ash. He licks her into one orgasm, and then flips her onto her stomach the way she likes and fucks her into another one. It almost finishes him, but while she's coming down from the second one, he pulls out and gives his balls a soft tug, encouraging them to cool off a little.

"Where are you?" she asks, all breathy, looking over her shoulder for him.

"Calming down. I wanna go a little longer," he says, and then he massages her back for a few minutes, as she moans in pleasure and her toes curl up.

"I love everything you do to me," she says. He kneads down the length of her spine and stops at those cute little dimples at the top of her ass. He leans over and kisses them, and she wiggles her butt. "Please, Tommy." He reaches a hand down for her sensitive spots while he's sucking a love bite onto one of those dimples and another one higher up, over her shoulder tattoo. She begs again.

It gets crazier from there. They end up with her on her back, her ankles on his shoulders, and his hands under her. She's making a _fuckton_ of noise, and she's flushed from her hairline down to the top of her breasts, her head rolling back and forth on the bed, so incredibly beautiful. He's been varying shallow thrusts with deep ones, trying to hang on to his control, but he's about to lose it when she cries out louder and her nails dig into his forearms. She climaxes again, and he lets his control go, thrusts deep and hard and fast, comes so hard that his vision goes white fuzz for a good twenty seconds.

He sets her down as gently as he can manage and then collapses next to her on the bed, breathing hard and gathering her in for a good deep kiss. She puts one hand on his shoulder, tracing his tattoos, and says, "Wow. Third one about took the top of my head off. Why didn't you _tell_ me you had such a lech for pregnant women?"

He exhales a tiny laugh through his nose. "Wanted my heart to keep beating. _God_, woman, making love to you is like running a fucking marathon."

"It was a little crazy, yeah," she says primly, just as if she hadn't been saying the most gorgeously filthy things to him not ten minutes ago. "You seemed inspired."

"I love you," he says, feeling it scratch out of his throat where all that emotion is held back.

"I love you too," she says, in a voice so full of affection and wonder that he wonders for the forty millionth time how he got so lucky, and without meaning to he tightens his arm around her. An honest-to-God miracle, right here in his arms. _Thank you. _

"Good. Now shut up, mother of my child, I'm goin' back to sleep. You wore me out." She doesn't answer, just laughs very softly and kisses his cheek.

**A/N: Oh. Hey. I already had this written before it occurred to me that Gavin O'Connor, who directed and collaborated on the screenplay for Warrior, also directed the film Miracle. Cool.**


	8. Chapter 8: Not Quite Sweet Sixteen

**FDTR: Not Quite Sweet Sixteen **

**Set approximately 18 years after the end of TLRH.**

"No," Tommy says, flat-out. He folds the newspaper into a neat stack at the kitchen table, puts his hands on the stack, and raises his eyes to meet his petitioner's.

He's wearing his Intractable Irish Stubborn Look, an expression with which Kelly is intimately familiar after all this time. He still looks damn good, by the way, wearing his forty-eight years well. There's just a light dusting of gray in his hair, which he still wears shorter on the sides than on the top, and a deepening of the lines in his forehead, but those deep-ocean eyes are as beautiful as ever, and his mouth is still full and lush.

"Please, Daddy?"

"Let me rephrase that. _Hell _no."

"Why not?"

"You're not old enough, and that's that."

"I'll be perfectly safe, Dad," his fifteen-year-old daughter says, scornfully.

She's wearing _her _Intractable Irish Stubborn Look, an expression which makes her resemble her father to a startling degree. Taken feature by feature, her face is a mix of both parents, with the occasional appearance of a feature belonging to a different family member: she has her mother's heart-shaped face but her father's squared-off chin, a delicate feminine version of Tommy's straight nose but Kelly's dimples, eyes the same light blue as her uncle Brendan's under her mother's arching brows and brown curls. In certain moods, she wears her grandfather's level, drop-dead stare.

Mary Kate Conlon is a beautiful girl. She tops her mother at 5' 4", and despite not being very tall, she's a killer catcher for the high school softball team - varsity, not JV. She's got her father's decadent mouth and her mother's curves, but she doesn't wear makeup and she dresses modestly. The boys have been noticing Mary Kate for a couple of years now, especially the older ones, but the house rule has been "no dating until you're sixteen."

Which is what's causing the ruckus right now. Mary Kate, a sophomore, is still fifteen. Her birthday will be very soon after the Homecoming dance, but she hasn't hit sixteen yet, and in this house, Regulations are Regulations. There aren't _that _many Regulations, Kelly's seen to that, but the ones in place are sensible.

"Doesn't matter. You're not sixteen, you can't date." That's that. Tommy's chin goes out and his brow lowers. "Don't argue with me, MK, you know the rules."

She does. And she's a good kid. But lately she's been pushing her boundaries some, and Kelly's not sure how to deal with that. Kelly wasn't allowed to date in high school, except in a group, so she can't rely on her own experiences, and this is their only girl. She's been talking to Tess, who does have a stubborn daughter of her own, but since Brendan's default setting as a father was to give in, Tess had the other battle entirely – to set limits without restricting unnecessarily.

"Daaaad! It's at the _school!_ We'll be _chaperoned!_ They'll practically have binoculars trained on the dance floor!" Tommy picks up the newspaper again, indicating that he's finished with the conversation. Mary Kate gestures dramatically at her mother. "Mom, make him listen."

_Ha. As if._ Kelly tamps down a grin. "Oh, sweetie, he's been not-listening to me for almost two decades. You're on your own." Tommy shoots her a Look, and she blows him a kiss.

Their daughter produces a growl of frustration. "I can't _believe_ you won't let me go."

"Better start believin'." Tommy gets up from the table. "Is there any more coffee, baby?"

"Plenty in the pot." Kelly made half-caff on purpose this morning, knowing that Mary Kate was going to tackle her father on the invitation and not wanting to let her husband get his blood pressure up over this discussion. Mary Kate, no dummy, has chosen a good time, actually – her younger brother is at a sleepover, and her dad has just finished an excellent Saturday breakfast of omelet, bacon, and apple-raisin oatmeal muffin, plus orange slices, because Mary Kate has already managed to get her mother on her side. Kelly insisted, though, that her daughter would have to make her own case to win her dad over.

Tommy pours more coffee and wanders back to the table. "What are you stickin' around here for, little bird? I said no. How many times you wanna hear it?" His voice is gruff, but underneath it is the affection of a father for his daddy's-girl daughter.

"Daaaad. Can you just listen to me? This isn't one of those dinner-and-a-movie dates. It's not a serious I-like-you date." Mary Kate shifts from one foot to the other, clearly marshaling her arguments. Kelly heard them all yesterday, when her daughter was practicing. "Well, okay, it's sort of serious – it's the Homecoming dance and people dress up for it."

"What, like prom?" Tommy sips coffee, looking skeptical. "They do that now?"

"Sort of. Not as fancy as prom. And you don't have to be a junior or a senior to go to Homecoming, but it's kind of a big deal. Pleeeeease, Dad?" Mary Kate forgets for a minute that she has points to make and goes straight for the big-eyed emotional appeal.

Tommy just raises his eyebrows at her. "You know that don't work on me." It does, actually, but only if he isn't worried. Kelly makes a small go-on hand motion at her daughter, _keep explaining_.

"So anyway, it's a big deal, very school-spirit, everybody will be there. And so the other day Tucker asked me if I would be his date, so I told him I would ask you."

The interrogation commences. "Who is this Tucker guy, now?"

"Tucker _Monroe_, Dad, you know him. His mom's in Mom's book club. His sister Haley's on the softball team with me – she's a senior. He's in all my accelerated classes. We went to preschool together, Dad. Blond hair, brown eyes, pink cheeks... come on, you _have_ to remember Tucker. He was over here twice a week for play dates when we were little kids."

Tommy turns his head and looks at Kelly, who nods. "Tucker's a good kid. They go to Middlefield Lutheran and he is, literally, a Boy Scout."

"Literal Boy Scout, like that's gonna help," Tommy says, but now there's something under the sternness, like he's starting to get talked into this. "Just the two of you? Does he drive yet?"

"No, he's got his learner's like me. His sister Haley would drive, and she would take us. We would go out to Applebee's to eat and then to the gym for the dance. It's a_ group _of us, Dad – a whole bunch of kids. Mostly the softball girls and their dates. Everybody just hanging out together, not a bunch of couples sucking face in the corners."

He presses his lips together. "What time is the dance over?"

"Eleven."

"Your curfew's at ten-thirty, young lady."

"I'd leave on time. Or you could come get me, so Haley wouldn't have to miss the dance." Mary Kate is bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, anxious but starting to feel the tide shift a little.

Tommy is quiet a minute, sipping more coffee. "You realize that you're still not sixteen yet, Monkey?" It's his old nickname for her, given to her back in the days when she was a touchy two-month-old who could sometimes only be soothed by being walked up and down the hall in her father's arms. She'd worm her little hand in between the buttons on his shirt and clutch on, like a little monkey, and he'd pace around with her, and gradually she'd go to sleep.

"I'll be sixteen in a month," Mary Kate reminds him eagerly. "Only about two weeks after the dance. I'm almost sixteen." She takes a deep breath. "And... you and Mom always said, 'No _solo_ dating until you're sixteen.' We won't be solo at all. There will be plenty of people around, we'll all stand in the middle of the gym and bob up and down like corks because there won't be enough space to really dance."

_Uh-oh_, Kelly thinks, watching her husband's eyes narrow, and his mouth clamp tight. "I don't think it's a good idea. Wait until you're sixteen, and then you can go."

"Homecoming will be _over _by then, and I won't _want _to go on dates!" Mary Kate starts blinking rapidly, biting her lip to keep it from trembling.

"Well, that solves your problem then, doesn't it?" Tommy sips more coffee, but Kelly can tell that he's registering that Mary Kate's about to cry for real.

"Please, Daddy." She whispers it, looking woebegone.

He sighs. Looks off to the side, and then back at his daughter. "What does your mother say?" They both turn to look at Kelly.

"I think that we could make an exception for the Homecoming dance," Kelly says calmly. "She's _nearly_ sixteen – we're talking a difference of two weeks here. It's a special occasion, and we know all the people she'll be spending the evening with. It's not a single date. And she did come to us and ask very respectfully that we adjust the rule, instead of trying to sneak around it."

"Hard to sneak out wearin' a fancy dress," Tommy observes.

There are any number of ways a really determined teenager could deceive her parents long enough to make it to a dance all dressed up, but Kelly would rather not give anybody ideas. She lets it go. "My point was that she respects you enough to ask for your permission."

"Your good opinion matters a lot to me," Mary Kate has the presence of mind to say. It even happens to be true; the girl loves her dad like he loves her, no reservations. Kelly loves watching them together.

And that does it. Tommy caves.

He sighs. Says, "Well, it's against my better judgment, but I guess you can go." It's less than gracious, but all the same it's a victory for the pro-dance segment of the household.

"Thank you, Daddy, oh, thank you," Mary Kate exclaims, hugging him. "I promise I'll conduct myself in a manner befitting a young lady."

_Conduct yourself in a manner befitting a gentleman_ was always the last thing Tommy ever said to Jack and Martin when they left the house for a date, and presumably Mary Kate's been taking it to heart. Which makes Kelly's eyes sting. Tommy has been a good dad.

"Well, all right then, little bird. Now about this _dress_ you're gonna wear." Ah, Battle #2.

"We haven't been shopping, I don't have one yet. People usually wear short ones to Homecoming, though, so it won't be that fancy."

"Well, I need to approve it first. You're not leavin' the house lookin' like a walkin' invitation to sin." His accent's gone deep Pittsburgh with conflicting emotions. He leans forward and fixes his female offspring with a glare. "_No strapless_."

As Kelly might have predicted, Mary Kate sets up an immediate wail. Without even having a dress in mind, she's just affronted at the idea of limits on what she can choose. "But Daddy," she pleads, and although Kelly can see MK's tears having at least a small effect on her father, she still doesn't intervene. She waits.

"And no slits, or... or holes where they ain't s'posed to be, either. Like no showin' off your stomach. And it better cover your knees."

"Why would you even say that, Daddy?" Mary Kate says, sniffling and outraged. Kelly knows why she's asking – now she's hurt that her sweet daddy could even imagine that she'd dress like that on purpose, as if he really thought she wanted to.

"'Cause you're built like your mother, that's why."

"Daddy!" At this point, Mary Kate, who's just run through her entire repertoire of the tones of voice in which she addresses her father, is scandalized. Kelly heard her confiding in her friend Caroline just the other day that it's just kind of _gross_ the way her parents can't keep their hands off each other.

"I've been a sixteen-year-old guy. You haven't."

"Tucker's not like that. He's _a friend_."

"Oh, yeah? Well, whether you know it or not, he's like that. He's got a di – uh, a Y chromosome, and you don't."

Heavy sigh. "Daddy. Are you going to continue to be unreasonable?"

"Yup. You cover up. I mean it."

Time for Kelly to step in. "Baby, you know I wouldn't let her go out in something immodest. And you also know she wouldn't pick something that you don't approve of, so stop tearin' strips off each other and _quit arguing."_ Tommy makes his huffy eyebrows, but he shuts up. "There's a nice set of dresses that were your cousins', up in the spare room closet, honey," Kelly says to her daughter. "Aunt Tess brought them last time she was here. I bet you six M&Ms one of those will do just fine."

"Rosie's?" Tommy asks, looking skeptical. Rosie's taste in clothing is... well... bright. There was a royal purple prom dress that nearly put people's eyes out.

"Some of them were Emily's. And I swear, there are no ugly dresses in that bunch. Don't worry, there'll be something nice that won't show off too much of you."

"Thank God," MK says, looking relieved.

Kelly could very well take Mary Kate to Babette's, to look for a brand-new dress there, and it's proof of the Conlons' sensible lifestyle that Mary Kate doesn't even ask for a new dress. As long as it doesn't _look_ worn and secondhand, she doesn't seem to care.

"And if none of them will do, we'll go by the thrift store. If there's a strapless one you love, we'll put wide ribbon on it for straps. I can sew. _Trust _me," Kelly says. To both of them. "Mary Kate, go call Tucker and put that boy out of his misery. Tell him your daddy said it was all right as long as you go with Haley and Wilson and the others."

Mary Kate, finally, finally smiles and digs her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, heading for the stairs. She blows a kiss. "Thanks, Daddy, I love you."

"Don't make me sorry," Tommy calls to her. "_I'll _put that kid out of his misery," he mutters under his breath to Kelly, once Mary Kate has gone up to her room.

"Oh, hush. You will not." Kelly loops her arms around his waist. "He's a good kid. And so is ours."

He slides his arms around her in response. "Yeah, I know. What the hell kinda name is Tucker, anyway?"

"Don't pick on poor Tucker, just because she's been _your_ girl up to now. He's a nice boy."

"Is he cute?"

"Yeah, he kinda is. A little on the chubby side, but cute. Kind of a geek, he likes Monty Python."

Tommy sighs. "I don't like this."

"I know you hate the thought of your baby outgrowing you," Kelly says, "but the fact is, she is growing up. She's a young lady now, and she's a really good kid. We need to trust her a little, and reward her for being trustworthy."

"Yeah... well, trust me on this: if he makes her cry, I will make _him _cry. That's not a threat, that's a promise."

Kelly has to laugh. "Marine dad. Every teenage boy's date nightmare." Tommy snorts through his nose, and she reaches up to kiss him. "You are such a good dad. I love you like crazy, I hope you know that."

He kisses her back. "Mutual, baby. Don't let her pick a stripper dress, okay? She has no idea how guys' minds work."

"She'll be modest," Kelly reassures him. "She's not gonna let you down, okay?"

* * *

Two weeks later, it's Saturday afternoon and Kelly's in Mary Kate's room, helping her get ready for Homecoming. She's already in her dress and shoes, silver strappy sandals with chunky low heels, because Mary Kate wasn't quite sure of her ability to maneuver gracefully in anything higher than an inch and a half. They're doing hair – leaving the teenager's hair in its usual shoulder-length curls, but with a few silver rhinestone clips in it here and there – and makeup – just a little gray shadow and mascara, along with a tiny bit of pink blush and lipstick, all very natural and subdued. She sparkles in it. _So beautiful,_ Kelly thinks. Mary Kate has pink cubic-zirconia stud earrings and a small cross on a silver chain.

"Now," Kelly says, "you need a smell."

"Perfume, Mom, seriously? Dad'll have a fit, he'll think it's too grown-up. He doesn't like me to smell like anything but clean laundry."

"No, he won't. Not with these choices." The first thing she hands Mary Kate to try is a small decant of Penhaligon's Violetta – violet flowers and leaves, plus a bit of cool cedar wood. Very intellectual, restrained, like the smell itself would shake its finger at the very idea of necking in the corner of the gym.

"It's nice," her daughter says politely. "Not very girly, though."

The second scent to try is a rollerball of Kenzo Amour – rice steam, wood and vanilla, soft and snuggly like pajamas. No sex. But Mary Kate makes a noncommittal face, and says something about there not being any flowers in it. She likes flowers, she says.

If she doesn't like the third one, Kelly will ditch the project. It's no big deal if her daughter leaves the house smelling like soap. She hands Mary Kate a miniature celadon-green bottle, Annick Goutal's Petite Cherie. "The perfumer made this for her young daughters. Grass, pear, apple, rose and clean musk. The name means Little Darling."

Mary Kate sniffs, and sniffs again. "It smells like Norton!" she exclaims. Kelly's face squinches up in puzzlement. _No, it doesn't._ "It smells like Great-Aunt Nell's house, 'member?, when we went there for the picnic and all the grownups sat around telling stories until it got dark. And I was lying on my back in the grass there by the rose bushes with Chris and Julie Anna and Ryan, and you could see all the stars, all the stars in the whole world. That's what it smells like, a magic night with all the stars."

Kelly does remember that picnic. Mary Kate had been twelve, Ryan ten, and the stars had been exceptionally sparkly that night. Like her daughter tonight. She blinks a little. "Perfect, then," she says, and gives Mary Kate a spritz on wrists and the base of her throat, before kissing her cheek. "I'm so proud of you, sweetie. You know I am. I'm proud of your sports abilities and your piano skills and your good grades, but I'm proud of this part of you too, this little girl growing into a young woman. Love you, baby."

"I love you too, Mommy," Mary Kate says, and kisses her back. She's called her mother "Mom" for several years now, but Kelly doesn't mind a bit being "Mommy" tonight. It's sweet. "I'm ready to go, let's go take pictures."

"Okay. Let me go down and prepare your dad, okay?" She goes downstairs to where Ryan is parked in front of one of those Discovery Channel documentaries, oblivious in his thirteen-year-old way, and where Tommy is sitting on the couch next to Ryan, unnaturally still. "Hey. Cinderella is about to enter."

Tommy stands up and comes to the bottom of the staircase, waiting. He hands Kelly the camera. "I can't," he whispers urgently to her. "I'm too... whatever. You do it."

So Kelly watches the scene through the camera lens, and nobody could blame her too much for catching several shots of Tommy's face before she moves to capture her daughter's dressed-up loveliness, gliding down the stairs. The dress, which just touches her knees, was originally one of Emily's, a petal-pink chiffon with a ruched sweetheart bodice and A-line skirt, its spaghetti straps and the snug-but-not-tight fit of the bodice keeping it modest. Mary Kate's got a silver wristlet purse for lip gloss and cellphone and wallet, and a white pashmina wrap for warmth, and her shy smile glows. _She is so lovely,_ Kelly thinks again.

Tommy looks poleaxed. And proud, and affectionate, and adoring, and almost scared to death. As Mary Kate reaches the bottom step he puts his hand out to help her down. "So let me see." He rotates a finger, indicating she should spin around. She turns, slowly, so she won't trip on her unaccustomed heels. When she comes to a stop, she's biting her lower lip just a tad, lest Dad disapprove. He looks her over head to toe, sighs softly through his nose, and says, "It's a little short."

Tears spring instantly into Mary Kate's eyes, and Tommy relents. "But it does cover your thighs, so... I guess it's okay." He holds out his arms for her, and she goes into them gratefully. "You look real pretty, Monkey," he says, very soft, and now Kelly can see him blinking tears too.

"Thank you, Daddy," Mary Kate says demurely, and then, "Would you please not call me Monkey in front of Tucker?"

Tommy nods. Kisses his daughter's hair, and then looks at the dress again. "You got enough, um, hips to hold that dress up?"

Mary Kate sends her mother a despairing glance, and Kelly reassures him. "It's fine. We tested it. She can lean over and jump around and nothing falls out. I promise you, it's safe."

"Okay, then," he says, and smiles, but there is something vulnerable in his face when he looks back at Kelly.

"Don't mind him, honey," Kelly tells her daughter, with a ton of affection for both of them. "He just doesn't want his baby girl to grow up."

And Mary Kate looks at her father very seriously. "I'll always be your girl, Dad. Always."

"Damn straight," he says, and hugs her again. "Listen, I, um, I got you something. I was gonna give it to you for your birthday, but I think I should give it to you now instead." Kelly's heard nothing of this; it's Tommy's own surprise. He fishes in his pocket and brings out a little blue velvet box. "For you. Much as I hate to admit it, you're growin' up. I'm proud of you."

Mary Kate opens it and wordlessly shows her mother the small diamond stud earrings inside. "They're beautiful," she whispers.

"So are you, baby girl," he says. "Want some help with 'em?" She nods, and he helps her take out her pink earrings and put in the diamonds. "There you go. Now you take care of yourself. If he touches you somewhere he shouldn't, you tell me and I'll stomp him into next month."

Kelly laughs. Mary Kate rolls her eyes. "He won't. He's _Tucker_," she says, as if that's an explanation.

And then Live Penguin Cam on Discovery goes to commercial, and Ryan hops over the side of the couch to see what he's missed. "Hey, what did_ she _get? How come I don't get anything?" Both his parents and his sister give him withering looks, which he ignores. "Oh, hey, MK, you look nice."

"Thank you, bozo," she says.

The doorbell rings.

Mary Kate inhales. So does Tommy, before he wheels around and goes to open the front door. Kelly looks around him to see Tucker, skinny and about three inches taller than Mary Kate, wearing a gray button-down shirt, smoky-pink tie, and dark gray dress pants, holding a pink rose corsage.

"Oh, um – hi, Mr. Conlon." He offers his hand. "I'm Tucker Monroe. Mary Kate's date to the dance."

Kelly will confess, if asked, how she and Annie Monroe coached Tucker last week on how to greet Mary Kate's dad. He's doing okay – so far Tommy hasn't threatened him even once. He's shaken Tucker's hand and invited him in, and he might be staring daggers through the poor kid but he hasn't mentioned his K-Bar Marine knife, or shotgun and shovel. So things are going well.

There's some chitchat, and then Tucker comes all the way inside and his eyes light up at Mary Kate. "You look really nice," he says, sincere, and Mary Kate smiles and blushes, looking off to the side the way her dad used to do. It's just as charming on her as it was on him. "This is for you." Tucker opens the plastic box and takes out the wrist corsage. "Which wrist?"

"Left, please," and MK holds her wrist out to him. Kelly snaps pictures of the Bestowing of the Corsage, and several other shots of the two teens together, and they get Tucker to take a couple of Mary Kate with her parents.

While MK is telling her brother goodbye and patting the dog's ears, Kelly quietly checks to see that she's got some money, just in case of dire emergency. Over her shoulder, though, she can hear Tommy telling Tucker that Mary Kate's curfew for this evening is 11:30, which should give him plenty of time to get her home after the dance, and if he'd rather, Tommy will come and pick her up. She can't see, but she imagines that Tommy's got his game face on, which ought to be scaring poor Tucker to death. She wraps the pashmina around Mary Kate's shoulders and kisses her daughter.

Tommy is saying, "Just so you're aware, I know seventeen different ways to kill a man with my bare hands. And we're not that far from the Allegheny." Implying, Kelly supposes, that he can use the river as a disposal method for the dead body.

Mary Kate heard that. "_Daddd._"

Poor Tucker's cheeks are bright pink. "That – that won't be necessary, sir."

"Good. We understand each other then." He holds his hand out for Tucker to shake again. "I expect both of you to conduct yourself like model citizens. And drive safe."

"Have a _good time,_" Kelly says with emphasis, and tucks herself under Tommy's arm, feeling the tension in it.

"Uh, yes ma'am," Tucker says. "I'll take good care of her." They wave before they go out and get into the back of Haley Monroe's sensible Toyota. Tucker opens the door for Mary Kate, which _thank goodness,_ because Tommy's still on high alert. As the car pulls away, Kelly puts both arms around Tommy's waist and squeezes.

"Diamonds, huh?" Kelly says to Tommy.

He shrugs. "Wanted to be the first guy to give 'em to her."

"That's sweet." It is. "Did I ever tell you that I love you like crazy?"

"Not recently enough." He kisses here, then looks out the window again. "But if he touches her tits, I'll cut his dick off."

Kelly cracks up. "Come _on_. They're good kids. They both know better."

"Yeah, well, if I was sixteen she'd look like dessert to me." He nuzzles Kelly's neck. "She looks too much like you. If I'd been on a dance floor with you in high school, I'd 'a gone home after and jerked off six times in a row, thinkin' about you."

"What?" Ryan says from the family room.

"Never mind," they both yell back, and this time, finally, Tommy laughs too.

"Well, I'd _hope_ you'd have been attracted to me," Kelly says. "All the same, you wouldn't have laid a finger on me, and if you had, I'd have shaken it off. We just have to trust them."

"I guess," he says, and leans over to kiss her.

"As it is, we have some time before dinner." She lowers her voice. "Want to go tell me what you would have been thinking if you'd danced with me when we were in high school?"

He turns his head and looks at Ryan, once again enthralled with penguins. "If I do, you won't be able to keep your hands off me," he whispers to her.

"I can't keep my hands off you anyway. But I was a virgin until I was twenty-three, dude, so stop worrying about your daughter. She's gonna be fine."

"Deal, then," he says, and takes her hand to pull her up the stairs.

**A/N: My own dad could be counted upon to ask me, every time I dressed up for a dance, whether I had enough hips to keep my dress up. He didn't mean 'hips'. I only wore a strapless dress once, when I was a senior in college, and by then I actually DID have enough 'hips' to hold the dress in place.**


	9. Chapter 9: Valentine

**FDTR: Valentines, Year 1**

**February, a few months after TLRH ends.**

**In which I totally indulge myself by sending Tommy to the fragrance counter for some sniffery... and Kelly to the – oh, wait. Spoiler. Never mind. This one's for Wynter. And for me.**

Kelly's coworker gives her a message as she swings back by the nurses' station in the ER. "Hey," Megan says, rushing past with a saline drip, "call your husband."

"Oh," Kelly says, turning to walk with Megan long enough to hear the whole deal, "when did he call?" They're on night shift. She hopes everything's okay.

"Maybe five minutes ago? He said as soon as possible but no emergency." Megan swings into a patient's room, and Kelly nods at her.

She checks the clock on the wall: 5:20 am. So it's that late – Tommy might just be awake for his usual morning run, he might just have thought of something he needed to tell her. She grabs her cell phone out of the purse in her personal cubby and dials, right away. It's relatively quiet right now, so she's probably got time.

When he answers his own cell phone, her husband (her husband! That still gives her a huge thrill) doesn't even bother to say hello. Instead, he starts right in with a greeting. "_Querida, mi esposa, mi vida_ – "

"Uh-oh," Kelly cuts across him, smiling.

"What?" he says, pretending innocence.

"Already with the Spanish. _You_ have plans."

"So? You're my wife. I ain't seen you at night in three days and I miss you. That a crime?" She can hear the smile in his voice, too.

"I rotate off today. Which you know, because it's on the calendar."

"I miss you," he repeats. "Will you be home by 6:30?"

"Yes." They're newlyweds, they're still insatiable for each other – unless she's exhausted after three days running of night shift ER work. But it looks like Tommy does have plans this early in the morning, and she can certainly stay awake for_ that._

"Good. Meet me in the shower."

"Ooh. Yes, Mr. Conlon. Think about me until then."

"Nope, can't do it. Sorry. You ever try to go running with a boner?"

She laughs out loud, and in doing so catches the attention of the Emergency Department supervisor – who hates people taking personal calls, even if there's no pressing emergency going on in the ED. Phyllis shoots her a death glare.

"I have to go," she tells him.

"Okay. You, me, 6:30, naked, shower. You copy?"

"I copy." She can hear how breathless her own voice sounds.

"Love you, baby." He hangs up.

She spends the next hour doing a number of things: checking on the few patients not either discharged or admitted, updating their files, and avoiding Phyllis like the plague, not to mention thinking about Tommy naked in the shower, all muscle and smooth, wet, inked skin. Quitting time cannot come too soon.

He's in the shower when she gets home; she can hear the water singing in the pipes. She drops her scrubs on the floor in their room and locks the door, then slips into the master bathroom. He pokes his head out from behind the shower curtain. "Well. Mrs. Conlon. You're late."

"You're early," she says, and takes off her underwear.

"God, you look good. Get in here, willya?"

So she hops in and slips her arms around him, making him jump. "Jesus _fucking _Christ, your hands are like ice!"

"You've been outside recently, how come yours are warm?"

"I run in _gloves_," he snarks, taking her hands and putting them under the warm spray, then turning them around so she can be completely under it.

She ducks her head under the water, then comes out to say, "Well, I was wearing gloves too, but I was holding a cold steering wheel on the way home. Makes a difference."

"Don't matter, you're warm now," he says, reaching for the grapefruit shower gel. She usually uses the Rose Jam one, but now she's going to smell like him all day – which is no bad thing. As soon as the boys are on the school bus, she can go to sleep. His hands are warm and caressing on her body, sliding over her back and her hips, across her breasts, down her legs.

She catches her breath when his hands dip between her thighs. She goes up on tiptoe for kisses, balancing herself with one hand on the shower wall and feeling him hard against her belly. "Missed you," she says, and goes back for more of his pillow-soft lips and warm tongue. She runs her hands across his chest and shoulders and biceps, stroking him everywhere he's got ink, and then she goes for that Gothic lettering tattoo on his lower side, unable to stop her hands going lower.

The kissing goes on for awhile, their hands busy elsewhere much farther south, until she loses patience and goes onto her knees, taking him into her mouth. He won't let her do much, though, swearing through his teeth and pulling her up by her upper arms. "Fuck, that's too good, stop now." He focuses on her breasts, caressing them and sucking each nipple, until she's extremely aroused and close to begging. "Turn around, baby," he says, moving her but careful not to push her off balance.

When she's bent over, leaning against the shower wall, he caresses her from lower back to her butt, muttering his little saying in Spanish about "luck running out of both hands," and she knows he's dying for it too. "God, you feel good," he says, sliding inside her.

She can't talk, she just moans, reaching one hand between her legs to help things along because she can tell he's not going to take long.

"You ever think about – oh, baby, yeah, touch yourself – about getting another tattoo? Like... like here?" He's got his hands on her lower back, in that "tramp stamp" area, and she's never thought about it, not that spot, it's so visible and associated with sluthood that she has honestly never considered it. All the same, it's clearly turning him on, so... maybe.

She still can't talk, because now, with him so aroused, she's hot for it too. She comes right then, moaning loud enough that he actually shushes her – and then he's gone too, gripping her hips tight and groaning. He turns her back around and kisses her thoroughly, then gets out of the now-lukewarm water to dry off.

She cleans up a little and gets out of the water too, going into the bedroom in her towel. He's getting ready for the gym. "Hey," he says, "why don't I just get the boys some cereal and put them on the bus, and you can go to bed. You look like you're about half-asleep anyway."

"I'm pretty relaxed, yeah," she admits. "That would be great, thank you so much."

"Well, they're my kids now too," he says, shrugging on a clean shirt and eyeing her. "God, you are so beautiful naked."

So she drops the towel and gets into the bed on his side, snuggling in where the sheets smell like him. "You really think you'd like to see a tramp stamp on me, huh?"

His ears flush. "Well. Only if you want. Doesn't matter."

"Tommy." She gives him the warning, don't lie to me look.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay? I'd like it. Not 'cause it's trampy, because I think you'd look beautiful in it. But it's your back, and if you don't want to that's fine. You are extremely hot without."

"Well, I'm glad you think that."

He finishes dressing, leans over and kisses her. "See you tonight, baby."

8 * 8 * 8 * 8 * 8

"Yo, boss," Fenroy hails him as he walks in the door. He can't seem to break Fen of the habit of calling him 'boss,' but now it feels like a nickname, so he guesses he's okay with it.

"Hey, Fen."

Fenroy immediately pops up with, "Hey, what're you gettin' Kelly for Valentine's? I've been racking my brains for two weeks tryin' to figure out something to get Melissa, but I just found her this pretty necklace. You still need something? I'd hate to see my research go to waste."

Tommy stops dead. "Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah. It's this Friday." _Shit. _He can feel his face fall. Fenroy cracks up. "What, you don't have a plan yet? Better get on the stick, dude. Dinner reservations. Roses. Chocolate. Jewelry. C'mon, you're a newlywed, you don't have an excuse to forget."

Tommy starts thinking out loud. "Friday... Friday she goes back on days. Which means she'll get home at 6:30 pm after a twelve-hour shift." They don't have a babysitter yet, not like Kelly's neighbor Tamera in Philly, and there's no family nearby to take the boys, except Pop, and _that _ain't gonna happen. So probably dinner out, which is the only thing on that list that sounds remotely good to Tommy, isn't gonna happen either. Kelly's been cutting down on sugar, and she's not a jewelry person, and Brendan told him once that it was no use buying roses on Valentine's Day, they were all going to be limp and not freshly cut. "Oh man. What am I gonna do?"

"What'd you do last year?" Fenroy asks.

"We weren't seein' each other. We didn't even know each other a year ago."

"Wow. Hey, you could make her dinner."

Tommy sighs. "Could. Actually, that's not a bad idea." Breakfast for Dinner, he could do that and not screw it up. And maybe a potted plant or something? No, that's lame. Shit. "Listen, thanks for reminding me, Fen."

It's while he's working the speed bag that it occurs to him. _Duh, perfume_. She loves perfume. Scented bath gel and all that shit, too. So maybe he can find something she'd like at the mall.

He takes a longer lunch break than usual and actually drives way the hell out to the mall north of the river, where there's a Nordstrom's. When he walks in, two relentlessly cheery women sort of corral him and take him over to the fragrance counter, where he listens to them yak about new stuff. When he admits that he's looking for a Valentine's Day gift, they start spraying stuff on cards for him. He likes the sound of Cashmere Mist, but it smells like laundry. Valentina has a really pretty bottle, but it doesn't smell like Kelly's sort of thing. Prada Candy smells _great,_ but if Kelly wore it he'd be trying to bite her in public. Plus, "My sister-in-law wears this, that would be too weird," he says to the sales associates, who immediately look disappointed.

A lot of the stuff smells like toilet cleaner to him, honestly, and when he says that, the SA's exchange glances and start presenting him different stuff to smell. _How about Opium?_ Ugh, no. _Youth Dew? _Double no. After that they move on to a different section. _Chanel No. 5?_ There's something in there that reminds him of Mom's Arpege, and it's pretty, but no. _Alien, by some unpronounceable-name French guy?_ Close, it smells like something Kelly would wear. But maybe too close to some other stuff she already has.

"Wait, you liked the Prada Candy," one of the SA's says, and he nods. She holds up a finger and returns with a bottle with a pink butterfly on it. "Smell this," she says, and sprays it. It's sweet and fruity, but rich. Like berries in caramel.

"Maybe," he says. "I'm not sure what her policy is on smelling like dessert. She usually doesn't." One SA laughs, and the other one gives him a long look, from head to foot and back up. "You don't got one that smells like peach ice cream, do you?" They shake their heads. Probably just as well, he'd embarrass himself in public. "Anything that smells like leather, then?"

They look at each other, thinking. "Leather... Here, try a few of these," the one that's less interested in flirting says, and starts spraying little paper strips again. Bottega Veneta is kind of pretty. D&G Anthology La Lune is too soft, it's almost like nothing on the paper blotter thing. Tom Ford Tuscan Leather is _fucking fabulous_, but he'd rather wear that himself, it's definitely masculine. He says as much to the SA's and the flirty one makes him a sample to take home, making sure her hand touches his when she hands it over.

"How much is this?" he asks her, and then whistles when she says it's well over $200. Too expensive for a smell – for him, anyway.

"Hermes Kelly Caleche, in the EDT," the efficient one says, and hands him a blotter. Nice. It's a little fainter than Kelly usually wears, sort of lemony, and he says so. "Try the EDP," she says, and hands him another paper strip. "Leather, iris, rose and mimosa. And here's the pure perfume, if you want to try that too."

This is more like it. Leather gloves and a soft, ladylike perfume smell, flowers... Yeah.

"This," he says, and nods. "The pure perfume one. And it's kind of perfect – her name is Kelly."

"Your girlfriend?" the flirty one asks.

"My wife," he says, and he can't keep the smile down. _Kelly, my wife_. So they wrap it up for him, the flirty one giving him a wistful sort of look as he leaves.

On the way out he gets distracted, wandering through a department he has never shopped in his life. Hell with it, he asks for help here too, and gets it.

When he gets back to the gym, Sam teases the hell out of him for smelling like girly perfume. He doesn't _care_, exactly, but he challenges Sam to a short sparring match with pads, and then knocks him down about six times. Finally Sam taps out, apologizing, and by then it's funny, the kind of story that Fenroy and Luis are going to get a lot of mileage out of. "Remember the time the boss came in smelling like a French whorehouse and then wiped up the floor with Sam..."

8 * 8 * 8 * 8 * 8

Kelly has made plans. She does her research, both online and street-level, makes her purchases, wraps them up while Tommy's at the gym. It's probably not going to be a traditional romantic-dinner Valentine's Day, but it will certainly be a fun one, no matter what Tommy gets her.

The morning of February 14th, she puts the boys' simple Valentines on their plates, along with their tiny four-piece boxes of chocolate. She kisses Tommy goodbye, and then heads out the door for the hospital. (Damn, Pittsburgh is cold in February.) She rethinks it, goes back in the house and kisses him again, just because she can.

"Wow, had to come back for more," he teases her. "Hey. Forgot to tell you – I'm makin' dinner. Like breakfast for dinner, okay?"

"Better than okay – thanks, that's really sweet. I have something to give you after that."

"Wanna give it to me now?"

He's teasing again, but she shivers anyway. "Can't. No time. You can have it tonight."

"Will the boys have to be in bed before you give it to me?" He gives her one of his sleepy-eyed, sensual looks.

"Stop that! And definitely yes, we should wait until they're asleep." She kisses him one more time and heads out again.

She can't stop thinking about him every time she has a spare minute, all day. How warm he is. The shape of his hands, the taste of his lips, the power in his shoulders. The feeling of his skin under her fingers. The incredible sweetness of him, under the tough-guy exterior. She gets Mary Chapin Carpenter's "I Feel Lucky" in her head, sings it to herself all day. She's still singing it as she comes in the door. She dumps her coat and purse and shoes, calling out that she needs to change clothes before eating.

"Okay, Mommy!" Martin yells back.

Kelly strips off her scrubs, which are stained from work, with some liquids she really will need to bleach out, and hops in the shower very briefly, before drying off and coming downstairs in a pink sweater and jeans. There's music coming out of the iPod speaker, Springsteen, but she comes in and flips it to Tom Petty, "Here Comes My Girl."

The kitchen smells like bacon and maple syrup and coffee. There are lit candles on the table, too. Looks like they're eating in the kitchen instead of the dining room, which is fine, because, _hey,_ maple syrup + children = automatic mess.

"Good song," Tommy says, putting eggs on a plate. "You ready to eat?"

"Definitely." She kisses the boys and listens to them tell about their day: Martin got thirty Valentines, and two of them had lollipops attached (he's already eaten them), while Jack liked gym class today, a role-playing game in the gym where the kids were either giants or dwarves, and had to move accordingly. They eat eggs and waffles (whole wheat toast for Tommy) and bacon and fruit salad, and there's some good decaf coffee. It's a great meal, and lots of _fun._ She tells Tommy he's a great cook, and the table looks beautiful. He says he had lots of help in the kitchen, and the boys all grin at each other like there are secrets.

"Uh-oh, what did you do?" she asks, suddenly suspicious. It's _too _perfect. Something happened.

"It's fine," Tommy says, but he's looking down and his ears are pink. "We took care of it."

"Boys, what did you do?" she asks them.

Jack avoids her eye. But Martin throws Tommy under the bus, pointing. "He did it."

Tommy puts his fork down and mock-glares at Martin. "Thanks for sellin' me _out,_ man. I coulda avoided trouble, but _ohhh no_, you had to tell your mom." He's barely keeping a grin in check. Martin giggles. Jack doesn't.

Kelly, watching all three of them, is puzzled. "So what happened?"

"We had to throw out your pink tablecloth," Jack says, deadpan. "It got ruined."

"What, with bacon grease or something?"

"It just got a little... scorched," Tommy says. "Anybody want more bacon? I'll eat it if it's leftover, and then I'll have to run an extra four miles, so somebody else please eat it."

Kelly and Jack split the last two pieces. "Scorched?" Kelly repeats? "Don't distract me, just tell me what happened."

"It was on fire," Jack tells her, brows drawn down over his eyes. She can tell that his delicate sense of order has been compromised: Jack likes things just-so and as-expected. "It freaked Bagel out, he barked his head off."

Holy cow. "On _fire._"

"It was cool!" Martin says, bouncing in his chair.

She checks out the dog, now calmly hoovering up crumbs from the kitchen floor, just like always. He seems fine. "You okay, puppy?" she asks Bagel, but the dog only sniffs her fingers and wags his tail until she rubs his silky ears. She finally looks at the perpetrator of said fire, who is fidgeting, ears bright red now. "So what did you _do_, Hotness, hold your finger on it until it reached flash point?"

She's never called him Hotness before, that nickname has always been for Jen and Clarice and the rest of Steve's Girls. He gives her a dirty look, and mutters, "I knocked the candle over when we were setting the table. _It's. Fine_. I'll buy you another tablecloth."

"I'm not worried about the _tablecloth_. I only worry about things that can't be replaced. Like you guys."

"We were okay, Mommy," Jack informs her. "Tommy put it out with water, because water is okay if it's not a cooking fire. It didn't even smoke very much. And I already planned the escape route if there is a fire in our house so we knew what to do if we couldn't put it out." He explains the plan in great detail, while they finish their dinner and Tommy's ears go back to normal.

After dinner, before he can get up and start cleaning up the kitchen, she pins him down in his chair and kisses him, very thoroughly. "No fires in the kitchen. Fires in the _fireplace,_" she insists.

"I like fires in the bedroom," he counters, hands on her hips.

"Fine, but literal fires_ only_ in the fireplace." She kisses him again.

"I'm sorry this wasn't, you know... romantic. I mean, I have something for you upstairs, but I kinda wish this could have been fancy food. Candles and wine and shit, you know, romantic." She just looks at him, smoothing a piece of his hair back, and he sighs. "But to tell you the truth, I liked it. A lot. Just us bein' a family, I liked it."

She blinks back tears. "That was the romantic part – that you love being with us. God, Tommy. It just doesn't get any more romantic than that. I been walkin' around all day thinking how lucky I am."

He smiles, his whole face lighting up. She'd voluntarily give up a whole year's worth of romantic dinners in exchange for that smile.

They clean up the kitchen, get the boys ready for bed, read stories, tuck them in. And then, thank God, they can go to their own room. She comes in and immediately starts turning down the covers on the bed. She has plans.

"What are you doin'?" he wants to know.

She stretches across, laying a double thickness of old flat sheets across the new fitted one, and looks enticingly at him over her shoulder. "Making up the bed."

"Don't you want your present?"

"Sure." She straightens up. "Don't you want yours?"

"You get yours first," he insists, and hands her first a box wrapped in pink heart paper. It's perfume, really good perfume, and even one with her name on it! She's thrilled, but just as she's about to give him appreciative thank-you kisses, he holds up another bag, small and metallic pink, swinging it from one finger. "Want this too?"

"I don't know. Do I?" she teases.

"Oh, I think you do. Deal is, you have to use it right away."

She can feel her eyes get big. "Okay. But first, candles." She lights two big ones on her dresser, and then one on the bedside table and one on his dresser, turning off the lamp. "That's done. Now." She holds out an imperious hand. (Where is this _coming from?_ It's like she's channeling Ava Gardner all of a sudden.) "Where's the other one?" He hands it over, a little smirk on his face.

The bag is light, and under a mound of white tissue paper she finds it: a set of lingerie, in pink lace so pale it's almost cream-colored. The bra is a demi-cup that she's going to almost spill out of, and the panties are tiny lace thong ones, hardly more than a scrap of material. This is _a bag full of sex_, right here. "Oh my," she says.

"You gonna put it on?" he asks her, very softly, eyes intent and deep in the candlelight.

She shivers. "Well, it sort of... um... might be a problem in conjunction with your present. I wouldn't want to ruin these, they're gorgeous." They are. Really naughty, but beautiful, too, with tiny pearl trim and that creamy lace.

"I want to see you in it," he says, letting his voice go rough, and she shivers.

"Okay, fine. But while I'm putting these on, you have to open your presents too." He raises his eyebrowns and makes shooing gestures at her instead of answering, but he sits on the side of the bed and reaches for the small bag his gift is in.

In the bathroom, she puts on the bra and thong, and adds some of her new perfume, which is also beautiful. In the mirror, her eyes are glittery with excitement.

When she opens the door to the bedroom, she sees him – he's sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, one knee raised and his arm resting on it, and he's naked and beautiful. Muscles gleaming. Ink gleaming against the muscles. He inhales audibly when he sees her. "You are _beautiful,_" he says, sweet and fervent.

"So are you," she tells him. "Did you open yours?" He nods, not answering, but he twitches there below the waist. "What did you find?"

"Looks like massage oil. And – " He picks up the envelope from the bed and reads off it. "Blackwell Tattoo Gallery, Penn Ave. Appointment 9 am Monday Feb. 17." He fans out the three feminine tribal designs. "This gonna be for you?"

She nods. "Yes. I like all three of those, so you can help me pick which one." He starts to say something, but she forestalls him. "Later. Right now, you gorgeous man, you are due a really good massage. _Naked_ massage. Naked _oil_ massage. Any questions?"

"Yeah. Do I get to do you too?"

"Not tonight. Tonight it's all you. So. Turn over and lie down," she urges.

He raises his eyebrows. "You orderin' me around?"

That wasn't the plan, exactly, but... "Yeah, I guess I am. You already gave me my present, so I have to give you yours now."

"Oh I got somethin' else to give you," he says, and strokes a hand lazily along his hard length. Kelly's finding it hard to breathe just now. "Lookin' at you in that... oh, I definitely got somethin' to give _you._"

"Well, it's a damn shame I'm gonna have to take it off," she says, and gets a _very wicked idea_. She strokes her fingers across her breasts in the bra. "Because this is really soft, soft lace, feels really nice on my skin. So I'd hate to get it all... oily." She strokes her breasts a few more times, then slips the straps down. Unhooks the back. The bra has shape, though, so it sort of stays mostly in place, until she peels it very slowly off, holding one arm in front of her breasts until it's completely loose. And then she takes hold of the bra with the fingers of one hand, stretching her arm out away from her before dropping the bra entirely.

Then she slips both hands under the narrow side straps of the panties. "Guess I'd better..." She slides the panties down just a little, hearing him catch his breath. When she looks at him, his eyes have gone dark and intense, and his hand is still moving slowly along his shaft. She raises her eyebrows and points her chin at him. "Stop that, or I leave these on."

He makes a noise of frustration, but he relaxes his hand onto his thigh instead. "Tease."

"You like it." She rubs a hand lightly down to her crotch and back up. "And I like these. Really soft. Did I say? Extremely soft. Don't want to ruin them." She puts her hands back into the sides of the panties and begins to slide them down, turning her back to him as they clear her hips and begin to fall to the ground.

"Christ, I love your ass," he says, soft and fervent.

She finishes the turn and looks at him. His pupils are completely blown now, and she suddenly realizes that she's going to have to rush the timetable on the massage or risk his loss of control. She makes a circular gesture with one finger. "On your stomach please." He hesitates just a few seconds, and then turns over, pulling one thigh up. "You can't lie flat, huh?"

"Your fault." His voice is that gravelly velvet one she loves so much, and she's really becoming aroused herself now, spurred by his excitement.

She starts with his neck, kneeling beside him. Just a little oil, just enough to smooth the friction away – and then a little more, moving on to his shoulders. The scar from the surgery to repair that torn ligament and muscle is fading, barely pink. Amazingly it hasn't distorted the ink much, just a clean pink line through. His tattoos are even more appealing glistening with the oil, and she lingers, admiring. She works down the muscles of his back, stopping just at the top of the large buttock muscles and starting again on his calves.

"Tease," he says again, muffled by the pillow. He's been fairly quiet, just an occasional hum of pleasure, but as she reaches his thighs the little hums come more frequently. She adds a little more oil to her hands to massage his butt, smiling as his breathing gets noticeably ragged.

"You ever had a massage before?" she asks him, trying to distract herself from her own arousal. "I mean a professional one."

"Yep. Frank's got a massage therapist on staff. You ever meet Bruce?"

"No."

"He's a sadistic bastard. I only ever got a massage when I had a sore muscle or something, because it kinda hurt when he did it."

"Turn over," she says. He does, folding his arms up behind his head. She starts with his chest here, again admiring the ink on oiled skin and the bulge of muscle. As she approaches his waist and the hip muscle there at the Adonis girdle, she stops and again moves to the legs and upward. He's got better control of his breathing at the moment, but his pupils are still fully dilated. She can't help glancing at his groin, the erect masculinity there.

"Kiss me," he says suddenly, as she's reaching his upper thighs. So she does. The feeling of his beautiful mouth under hers... ah. "Is this getting to you too?" he whispers against her lips.

"Very much. I love touching you."

"I'm not gonna last long, you know that."

"It's okay, this is for you," she says, but she shivers. Knowing he's close without her even touching his genitals makes her even more excited_. She's_ not going to last long, either. She adds a tiny bit more oil to her hands and slides them from his waist down his pelvis, grazing his shaft lightly.

He starts swearing under his breath. Kelly strokes him once, twice, a third time and then that's it, she's done with this massage thing. She drops her control and straddles him, sliding her body along his hard length. He groans, letting his head fall back, and just seeing that, watching him let go his own control, stirs her deeply. Just as she's about to come, he says, "Ah, shit, I'm gonna fuckin' come all over – " and he does. It's everywhere. Seeing that, seeing his teeth sink into his full lower lip, hearing him groan like that, it spurs her on, and she comes too.

When she can breathe again, she leans up to kiss him. He's smiling now. "Sorry. You got me pretty wound up."

"No, I got mine. I feel good," she says. "You might have missed it."

"Yeah, I was kinda distracted," he says, and laughs. "God. Incredible, woman."

"Happy Valentine's Day."

"Back atcha. So. The tattoo is for you, but it's also for me?"

She smiles. "Yeah. I don't want a big one – maybe 5, 6 inches wide? But yes. You get to pick which design you like."

He takes a deep breath. "That," he says, "is going to be very hot." And he grins.

8 * 8 * 8 * 8 * 8

Monday morning they get the kids on the bus, and then they're off to the tattoo studio.

"You can't kiss me through this one, I don't think," she tells him. "But it's okay, I've got the iPod to distract me."

"You'll be fine," he says.

Everything goes quite smoothly – the artist has Kelly sitting on a barstool and leaning forward while he traces the delicate scrolled design onto her lower back. It's fairly small, about six inches by two, and it reminds Kelly of old-fashioned quilling designs that she's seen. The design Tommy chose for her is the one she thinks of as the girliest one; its slender lines arch almost heart-shaped. It's not going to show unless she wears low-rise jeans. Today she's got some low yoga pants on, for comfort, and they're tugged down a lot lower than she usually wears them, for access to the expanse of skin low down on her back.

She's been expecting some pain, especially because of what happened with her wrist, but it doesn't feel terrible. The Tylenol taken beforehand probably helped, and the music helped too, and Tommy holding her hand, but it's not bad at all. When it does hurt, she closes her eyes and blows the pain out, trying to relax. She lets herself make a little noise, but not a lot.

It takes about an hour and a half; by the end she's starting to feel a little shaky. She probably needs something to boost her blood sugar a little. She opens her eyes to meet Tommy's and blinks in surprise. The _look _on his face... she knows that look. She's seen it often enough in bed with him. Or out of bed, too – it's the same sort of expression he was wearing that time he took her up against the wall after a fight. Like, _I need to be part of you right now._

She catches her breath and opens her mouth to say something. Doesn't know what to say, settles for "What?"

"I t hink you know what," he says softly.

"We're almost done," the tattoo artist, a youngish guy with red hair says, probably thinking they're talking to him. Brandon, that's his name, Kelly remembers. She almost feels like she's dreaming, she's so disconnected right now. "Just this little accent piece over to the right, and we're done."

"Good," Tommy says.

Now that she's looking harder, she can tell how physically excited he is. It's in his shallow breathing, the faint pink tinge to his ears, the gentle needy way he's rubbing her hands. Also, she notices that it's probably a good idea he's wearing sweats instead of jeans. Good Lord, who knew it would be having this effect on him? Had it had this effect on him when he was kissing her through her other tattoo, the one on her wrist?

Maybe so.

Five minutes later, Brandon's done. He angles two mirrors so she can see, and it looks really pretty. She says so. "It looks really good," Tommy says, and his voice has gone into that velvety rasp that always turns her on. She bites her lip.

Brandon goes through the aftercare procedure with her. Tommy tells the guy he's going to help, and after all the details are wrapped up and Brandon's shot a photo for the gallery records, they're out of there. It stings a little when she sits against the truck seat, but she's got on an old soft tee-shirt, a faded red one that won't show marks if she happens to bleed on it.

When he gets in on the other side, she tackles him on it. "So what was that? And don't say 'what was what?', either."

His ears go from pink to flaming in two seconds. "Sorry."

"You getting off on my pain, you little lust puppy?" She's halfway teasing, because she knows he's getting off on something. It's only partly funny – the other part is that his excitement has already transferred itself to her.

"No," he says flatly, meeting her eyes. "Not the pain, no. Just – your face, you know? Your expressions. And your little noises. And that thing – " he shakes his head, takes a deep breath. "Whoa. That is going to be unbearably sexy, winking up at me from right above your beautiful ass, I swear to God."

"Well, that's why I got it," she says, satisfied. "You have the best ideas."

"You want something to eat?" he asks, pulling out into traffic and adjusting his sweats. "I usually want something after gettin' a tat."

"Vanilla milkshake would be good. You thinking about getting any new ones?"

"Oh yeah," he says. "Can't yet, though, gotta wait until after this UFC match at the end of the month." He flashes her a glance. "I want your initials, low on my hip. You can help me choose the font."

All of a sudden Kelly gets it, this shivery-warm feeling of _yes mine he wants me on his skin,_ and her mouth opens in a gasp. She wants to help choose the exact location, suck a love bite onto him there, imagine the ink, imagine her initials marking him in that very private spot. "Oh my _God._"

He laughs a little. "See? I love it. You couldn't have picked a better Valentine for me, baby."

They go to a restaurant and blow about an hour, maybe an hour and a half, eating breakfast again. She takes some Advil with her milkshake and plays with the straw, which is apparently driving him crazy – his face is straight enough but his eyes are dark, pupils enlarged, and she tells him exactly how sexy he was sitting on her back step, having mowed her grass last spring after haunting her dreams.

"Oh yeah? So did you, um..." he tails off and makes an indeterminate gesture. "After?"

"Did I what?" She has an idea, but she's going to make him say it. He just shrugs, not meeting her eye, grinning into his coffee cup. "Did I touch myself?" she whispers, and he nods. "Thinking about you?" He nods again. She waits until he looks back up to tell him. "I waited until bedtime. But yeah, I did. Did you?"

"C'mon, you know I did. Not every night, but often enough. Baby? Can we go home now?"

Half an hour after that, they're pulling into their driveway and he's giving her _that look_ again. They hold hands on the way inside, on the stairs up to the second level, and then he's slipping her clothes off her, gently so he doesn't bump the sensitive skin of her lower back. "Into the shower, wench," he says, teasing and sweet. "Just long enough to rinse it off." He pats her dry and smoothes a tiny bit of ointment over the tattooed area, which feels hot like a sunburn to her.

There's kissing. There's a lot of kissing, and like always it is hot and sweet and delicious. His hands are everywhere, everywhere except where it might hurt, and she's aching for him by the time his fingers part the sensitive skin between her thighs. She moans right into his mouth. He pulls his own clothes off, fast and efficient, and then he's sitting her down on the bed and kneeling between her thighs. She arches her back and leans into him, letting him lick and caress her.

She hasn't quite gotten there when he pulls away, stroking himself lightly. "I can't wait anymore, baby," he pleads, and without asking what he needs she just gets onto her hands and knees there on the edge of the bed, crying out her pleasure when he drives home inside her. He's holding her hips and muttering incoherent things the way he does when he's almost gone, but she catches _mine mine mine mine, oh fuck yeah,_ and then, "Say my name. Say it till you come, baby, please."

She whispers it, moans it. Arches her back for him, and finds her own completion about forty seconds before his hands tighten on her hips and she feels him impossibly hard inside her, then the sensation of heat.

After, they collapse on the bed; instead of sheets, he curls himself around her for warmth. "You okay? You glad, or sorry?" he asks her, nuzzling her ear.

"That is a dumbass question," she says, bringing his hand to her mouth to kiss it. "Very happy, thank you."

"Best Valentine_ ever,_ doll," he says and kisses her neck.

**A/N: OKAY FINE so I indulged myself with my perfume prejudices. So sue me.** **But Tom Ford Tuscan Leather is really sexy. (I have friends who tell me it smells like cocaine, but I wouldn't know, sheltered as I am.) Also, I am still dithering on the whole get-a-tattoo issue. I think I still want one – but what and where, I don't know.**

**No updates for awhile, probably. I will be off to Connecticut over the weekend, to pick up my daughter and bring her home for Thanksgiving. We'll be attending the Harvard-Yale game on Saturday, woo-hoo, GO ELI! **


	10. Chapter 10: Spiked

**FDTR: Spiked**

**I was planning to save these holiday-themed one-shots for closer to Christmas, but I figured I'd be charitable and share. Say, one a week throughout December, or that's the plan, anyway.**

**Set approximately six years after the end of TLRH. Post-Christmas holiday neighborhood party. Tommy gets buzzed. Kelly gets drunk. Inebriated near-public sexual encounters take place. Hot lemonade here. Tiny bit of marshmallow fluff. Totally unsafe for work. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

"Do not drink the eggnog," Kelly hisses into Tommy's ear. He stands back up straight and gives her a deeply suspicious look, glancing at the squat glass in her hand and then to her face again, then turning back to the blond guy he'd been talking to before she interrupted.

Kelly insinuates herself under Tommy's arm, breaking in on his conversation with Jamie Povlich. It's the holiday block party at the Heinemans' house, and he really needs to know about the eggnog. He and Jamie are only discussing the Steelers, anyway, and they're starting to say the same things they were saying ten minutes ago when she wandered off to get one of their hostess' spice cookies and a drink.

"You know Kelly, right?" Tommy asks Jamie.

Of course Jamie knows Kelly. Their four-year-olds go to the same preschool. "Of course I do," Jamie says, sounding faintly affronted. "Ben and Mary Kate go to the Learning Circle together, they're in the same class. How're ya doin', Kelly, you havin' a good holiday?"

"So far," Kelly says brightly. She suspects it's only going to get more interesting. Good thing the kids are at home; responsible fourteen-year-old Jack is in charge of feckless Martin, and Kelly herself put Ryan and MK to bed at 7:30 pm, just before they left to walk down the street. "You?"

"Yeah, we're doin' great. Kendall's here somewhere," Jamie says. "I think she's been into the mulled wine and she's out giggling on the back deck with Penny and Ramona." He shrugs and downs the rest of his glass of yellow liquid, something that had been described to Kelly as "pineapple tequila punch." She can't manage tequila, never could – every time she drank it in college, even so much as a jiggerful, she'd wound up with the absolute worst hangover ever.

"Can I borrow Tommy for just a minute?" she says to Jamie, not really waiting for the answer. She pulls her husband over to the side and reaches up to whisper in his ear again, but he leans down to her like always.

"Do _not _drink the eggnog," she reiterates. "It's half rum, I think."

"So I should guess, judging from the fumes on your breath," he says calmly, eyebrows up. "What the hell is Jamie drinking?"

"Some kind of pineapple tequila thing."

He makes a face. "I think I might have some of the cider, it smells good. You want some?"

"Yes please. This is kind of undrinkable. I mean, I was thirsty and I drank half of it before I realized how alcoholic it was. Do you know where Adina is? The cookies are great."

"Nope, haven't seen her since we got here. C'mon, let's get you some nice plain hot cider before you get completely blasted and I have to carry you home."

"I don't weigh that much," she says, pouting, and he doesn't laugh out loud but his eyes crinkle up at the corners.

"I still don't want to have to carry you."

"Fffiiine," she says, and is surprised to hear her voice slur over the word. Maybe she is a little drunk already – it doesn't take much when you are a small person. Tommy just laughs and steers her over to the refreshment table, where he picks up a plate and puts two pieces of cheese and a spoonful of mixed nuts on it.

"Now. Cider for you, woman. No more eggnog." He ladles two mugs full and hands her one. It's really good – fragrant with spices and orange peel, and something... hmm. She can't place it, so she sips more, trying to identify. He kisses her cheek, and then the top of her ear. At the refreshment table they run into their elderly across-the-street neighbors, the Hirschbeins. Nancy Hirschbein has a serious case of granny lust and grandchildren that live in Florida, so she comes over once a week for coffee, bringing fresh-baked challah and the occasional small gift for the kids. Martin_ loves_ her. Kelly does too.

The Hirschbeins introduce them to another set of neighbors, some people new to the area who live on the next street over, and Kelly only catches their first names, Kent and Hannah. Kent seems to know who Tommy is, declaring that he remembers seeing Tommy "destroy those losers in the cage." Tommy's fingers go tight on Kelly's waist, and he doesn't say much. She's still not sure how he really feels about giving up fighting; occasionally he says he misses the adrenaline rush. Truth be told, she misses the adrenaline rush of seeing him fight, but not badly enough to want him to do it again. The stakes are too high.

Hannah asks Kelly about the local schools, if they're good or if she should consider private school. Her children, she says are four and two – the same ages as Mary Kate and Ryan – and Kelly says that her older two seem to be doing just fine with their public education. Depends on what you put into it.

Tommy's hand keeps gripping her waist tighter as Kent goes on saying things like "badass" and "tough" and "do you do personal training?"

"My client list is full," he says, curtly, and then, relenting, "but there are four other personal trainers at my gym, and some of them have openings, if you're interested." Kent asks for a business card, and Tommy drains his cider mug and sets it down. He manages to dig his wallet out one-handed and give the guy one. There's no real need for him to not let go of Kelly, but he doesn't anyway. Kelly gives Hannah her phone number so they can discuss the preschool situation, and then Tommy's saying, "Excuse us," and tugging her toward the deck door.

"What's this about?" she asks, tripping over her shoes, and realizing that her balance is starting to be seriously compromised. Apparently she's had more alcohol than she can handle.

"This," he says, pulling her pashmina wrap tighter around her shoulders against the cold, and putting his arms around her, "is about you in that _dress._ I cannot be held responsible for what I do to you when you wear that dress."

It's the same teal-green sequined backless dress she wore to the first Sparta; she's taken care of it and it still looks fine. But yes, it has history. Every single time she's worn it, she's spent some part of the evening bent over at the waist with the dress pulled up, and Tommy behind her muttering things in Spanish about her ass, with his hands all over her. It's good history.

Besides which, he looks great too. Between the interviews and Brendan's coaxing and Adam's insisting and Tess' compliments, Tommy's finally become accustomed to wearing suits on occasion. It hadn't hurt a bit for Kelly to give him the once-over when he was wearing one for some media event or other, and then go straight for the zipper of his pants the very second they were in private afterward, afterward attributing her immediate need to the way he looked in the suit. That had been extremely helpful in changing his attitude toward suits. To this day, he'll slip on a suit jacket and give her a sideways grin, just to remind her.

She smiles and starts to say something, but his gorgeous mouth cuts her off because he's kissing her, in a way completely inappropriate for a neighborhood party. She can't stop, though. Doesn't want to. He's her husband, he looks delicious in his gray suit, and she wants him as badly as ever. But when his hand snakes up under her wrap to find the bare skin of her back and he slides his lips to the side of her neck just under her ear, just under one of the beautiful diamond earrings he'd given her for Christmas a few days ago, it dawns on her.

That little tang to the hot cider? Alcohol. Very smooth, probably apple brandy, but definitely alcohol. Tommy hasn't had anything stronger than a beer in something like eight years. Maybe nine.

Then his other hand is right at the hem of her skirt, caressing the back of her leg, and her knees nearly give out from the rush of desire. "Not here!" she hisses into his ear, and has to say it twice before he looks at her. His pupils are blown already, and now she can feel the hard length of him jutting against her hip. "Do we need to go home?"

"Hell no, I can't wait that long," he says, his mouth at her neck again and his voice that velvety rasp that does things to her insides. "Upstairs. They have to have a spare bathroom. Or a closet or _somewhere_."

"Tommy," she says, torn. It's not polite. If he's this far gone, they should walk home. But he's got his tongue on her neck now and the heat between her legs is rising. "_Tommy,_" she says again, and he abruptly stops kissing her neck and drags her into the house, not fast but very determined.

They go up the stairs, away from the crowd on the main floor. The bathroom on this floor is occupied. "Everybody's gonna know," she whispers to him, embarrassed but not enough to tell him to knock it off.

"I do not fucking care," he whispers back, grabbing her hand again. They go up to the dormer room on the top, which is bigger than the one in their own house, and boasts a tiny separate bathroom, clearly added as a renovation. Looks like this room belongs to the Heinemans' teenage son Jake; the sink boasts a can of AXE spray deodorant, shaving cream and a razor as well as toothbrush and toothpaste. Doesn't matter. She'd worry about this, except that Adina Heineman had mentioned palming her three kids off on her mother for this evening.

Tommy closes the door behind them and turns Kelly to face the mirror over the sink. "Bonus," he says in that beautiful rasp, "we can watch."

She shivers, and then his hands are warm on her hips, pulling her panties down. She moves her legs apart, and the underwear falls to the floor. "_You_ can watch, you mean," she says, breathless and aching with need.

He doesn't answer, just sort of grunts as his fingers part her folds, and she can hear him breathing heavy behind her as she gasps with pleasure. "Baby," he says low into her ear, reaching for her hand with the one of his that isn't already busy, and she knows what he wants, he wants her to catch up because he knows he won't last long. She moves her hand to touch herself, her mouth falling open and her eyelids falling closed.

She hears his belt buckle clank open, and then the sound of his zipper opening; she even hears the soft whoomph as his pants hit the floor. Then he's behind her again, body warm against hers. "Now? Please," he murmurs against her neck.

For answer she arches her back for him, and then he's pushing inside her, strong and hard and he feels so good that her need ratchets up higher and she can't entirely stifle her moan. He's thrusting powerfully – not fast, but steady – and then he does something unexpected. He moves his hands to her shoulders and pushes her dress forward off them, tugging the bodice down to expose her breasts. The dress has sewn-in underwire support and she's never worn a separate bra with it, so here she is practically naked, getting fucked within an inch of her life because clearly Tommy is on the verge of losing it. He's set a fast pace now, bucking his hips against her ass and muttering things she can't make out.

She's going to lose it, herself. "Oh God, I'm gonna come," she gasps, and just as she hits that peak, where it's inevitable, _the door opens_. She doesn't stifle her moan this time as the wave of orgasm crashes into her, but she can see Tommy in the mirror, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched as the wave hits him too. She turns her head to see Kendall Povlich and Penny Steele standing there in the doorway, looking stupefied, holding cosmetics bags in their hands.

Kendall's jaw has practically hit the ground and she's murmuring, "Sorry, sorry, didn't know anyone would be – so sorry," but Penny's fascinated gaze has dropped to take in exactly what's going on here, and she gets the giggles as they back out, closing the door.

Tommy's eyes snap open at the sound of the door closing, and he looks instantly pissed off. "The fuck was that?" he snarls through clenched teeth.

Kelly, just getting her breath back, has got the giggles too. "Oh my God, we just got caught!"

Tommy's nostrils flare, and he pulls out, immediately tugging her dress down over her butt and trying to set her dress to rights. "Fuck. _Who?_"

"Baby, they're gone, there's no point covering me up now. It was Kendall and Penny." Kelly gets all of this out between snorts of laughter. "Penny seemed impressed."

"Goddammit," Tommy says, still looking like Extremely Pissed-Off Marine Sergeant, but his shoulders have relaxed a little. "Did I not lock the door?"

"I'm not sure," Kelly confesses. "I was distracted. You distracted me." She grabs some toilet paper to clean up with. Tucks her breasts more securely into the built-in bra of her dress and smooths it down, still laughing.

"At least it was girls," he says, tucking himself back into his boxers. "You were pretty much on display."

"Poor Penny, she's divorced," she tells him, getting hysterical giggles again. "She'll probably go home and play with her vibrator all night." He shoots her a Look. "Or she'll buy one if she doesn't have one already. One look at_ you._.."

He rolls his eyes and pulls his pants up. "Couldn't see that much of me, my shirt was in the way."

"Well, good." Kelly leans down to pull her panties up and nearly loses her balance. "Holy hell, I am really drunk. How did you let that happen to me?"

"I think I am too," he says, buckling his belt and shaking his head. "Shit, I think that was hard cider. No, no, gimme those," he adds, gesturing to her lace panties.

"Why?"

He gives her one of his crooked, naughty grins. "I'm gonna stick 'em in my pocket. If you put 'em back on, they'll only get messed up."

"You are a bad, bad boy," she says, admiringly.

"Let's go home," he says, and pulls her into his arms to kiss her thoroughly. Then they head out, only waiting for Kelly to lean back into the bathroom and spritz some of the loathsome AXE to cover up any lingering smell of sex. She really doesn't want to be responsible for shocking a teenage boy. Though probably Jake's far more worldly at sixteen than Kelly ever was at, say, twenty-two.

She rearranges her pashmina wrap decorously around her shoulders and takes Tommy's hand. She's careful on the steps, because a) she really is pretty drunk and b) she's wearing heels and c) if she falls down _everybody _is likely to get an eyeful, not just two gossipy neighborhood moms. When they've reached the first floor without incident, they go and find Adina and Leo, thank them for the party, and grab their coats from the master bedroom so they can take their leave.

However, they don't actually get out the front door without running into Kendall and Jamie Povlich again. Jamie has got his hand on Kendall's hip, just shy of palming her ass, and Kendall's face is flushed. "Happy holidays, 'bye," Kendall says, smiling dazedly.

"See you at the Learning Circle in January," Kelly says, deciding to pretend that Kendall and Penny had not walked in on her and Tommy. "And have a good holiday."

"Oh, you too," Jamie says. "Hey, I meant to ask – how long you guys been married?" There's a look in his eye that says Kendall's already told him what she'd seen, and he's probably thinking about doing the same with his own wife.

"Six years last week," Tommy says, sounding smug. "Six years of great sex, go for it, man. But you should probably lock the door." He winks at Jamie and pulls Kelly out the front door. She turns around just long enough to see Kendall stand on tiptoe and kiss her husband full on the mouth.

"Well, looks like we inspired them," Kelly says, breathless from the alcohol and the laughter and the adrenaline, not to mention what just happened in poor Jake Heineman's bathroom.

"Good for us. Now. We have a perfectly good bed at home, let's go there and make good use of it." He stops her, puts his arms around her and kisses her dizzy before taking her hand again and walking her home. At some point he's got his hand on her butt right there on Beechwood Avenue. They can't walk fast because of her heels, and it probably doesn't help that at every cross-street he stops and kisses her, sometimes with his hand on her ass. And sometimes with it down between their bodies, between her legs as discreetly as possible, one finger stroking her sensitive little pearl, her coat open and their bodies close together so no one can see exactly where that hand is.

"You're driving me crazy," she whispers after one of these little episodes.

"Think _I'm _not crazy?" he shoots right back, pulling her right back into his arms. "Knowing you're all bare under that damn dress? God, woman." He's hard again, too. "Cannot _wait _to get you home, these pants are cutting off my circulation." She palms him through his pants, but he makes her stop. "Fuck, no, not here, baby, people will see."

"I don't care," she says, but she lets him move her hand away so they can walk another block.

By the time they do get home she's wild for him again – but not in their bed. She pulls him to the back of the house, through the kitchen to the sunporch. The heat's on in there, so it's warm enough, and the miniature white Christmas lights running across the windows give enough illumination for her purposes.

Her naughty-minded purposes. The idea of somebody – anybody – watching them has set a fire down deep in her belly, and she needs her man to quench it. She tosses her coat and wrap onto the floor and shimmies her dress up and over her head. Stands there naked except for her shoes, enjoying the look of shock and lust on her husband's face. "Come on then," she murmurs, and gestures at him.

"Here," he says, pointing at the floor. Questioning.

"Right here." She blows him a kiss. The glass of the sunporch has fogged up, and anybody watching would only be able to see shapes, anyway. She's not _that _drunk.

He licks his lips and takes off his jacket, then toes off his shoes. "With the lights on?"

"Oh yeah." She sits on the futon and spreads her legs apart. "Come on, baby."

He inhales deeply through his nose and says, in exactly the same appreciative, admiring tone of voice she used earlier, "You are a bad, bad girl. God, I love you so much." He undresses more slowly than she'd expected, given how aroused he seems to be given the bulge in his trousers and his dilated pupils, but it isn't all that long before he's naked too, and kneeling in front of her to taste her. Like always, his mouth feels incredible and she climaxes soon, letting her head fall back in ecstasy.

Then he's laying her back on the futon, settling between her thighs and filling her up. He feels so good, and she stretches one leg up, resting that foot in its high-heeled shoe on the back of the futon frame and the other foot on the carpet so she can move with him. It takes awhile, which is only to be expected with this being the second time in as many hours, and she comes twice. And then as she fights her way back out of the haze of orgasm she notices he's talking, which still only happens when he's about to lose his shit, saying things like_ God, baby_ and _oh fuck yeah_ and _I love it with your shoes on_ and _Jesus Christ, Kelly. _He's so hard, hitting her so fast and strong, she lets go and cries out the way she wants to when everything uncoils inside her again, and about ten seconds later he's growling into her ear, pumping heat into her again.

It takes a full two minutes before he can move, or talk, but when he does he lifts his torso up so she can breathe better. "Jesus, woman, either you are drunk off your ass or we have just discovered your exhibitionist side."

"Or maybe you are just King of Cock," she says.

"What got into you? Besides the alcohol," he teases.

"Well.. _you,_ obviously." She's feeling really drunk now. She's going to need some water and some acetaminophen, desperately. "God, that was incredible. You're thirty-seven, you shouldn't be able to do repeat performace, performmm – do it again like that."

"You're complaining?" he asks, incredulous.

"Nope. Observating. I mean – never mind," she says, as he's started to laugh. "Hey. That was even better than the thing you put under the tree for me. Which was pretty great in the first place."

"Really. So you'd rather have my dick twice than diamond earrings? I shoulda saved my money," he says, still laughing.

"I want it all," she says, "everything you wanna give me. You can keep the money."

"Good. Baby, everything that's mine is yours." He kisses her. "Let's go to bed, okay?" She nods. "But I'm still not carrying you up the stairs, I'm too old for that shit."

She fumbles with her ankle straps, finally taking her heels off. He gets her some Tylenol and water, and they take their clothes up to the bedroom, hanging them across the chair before brushing teeth and collapsing into bed together, naked. "Nobody could really see anything through the fogged-up glass, you know," he says.

"I know," she says. "I'm not as bad as I make out to be."

"I like you the way you are, baby," he says, smile in his voice. "Pretend-bad was pretty fucking hot."

In the morning he's got another gift to give her, and it turns out she likes that one just fine, too.


	11. Chapter 11: Leaning Into the Wind

**FDTR: Leaning Against the Wind**

**Set 12 years after the events of TLRH. A little angst here, because a) I think this would happen, eventually, and b) we need some angst/smut/fluff before I descend into the holiday smut/fluff that's coming up. This one's sad. I'm sorry.**

**Thanks to my homegirls Wynter and Nik.  
**

"Let's go by your dad's," Kelly says, frowning, pressing END CALL on her cell phone. "It's not like him to not answer the phone." She'd wanted to invite him to Sunday lunch. She'd called early, an hour past the time Paddy usually gets up, but also a good hour before he usually leaves the house for Sunday Mass.

"I know," Tommy agrees, his brow furrowed.

"I mean, there are any number of reasons he might not have been able to get to the phone. Or he overslept."

Tommy snorts. "Not Pop. Unless..."

"Maybe he's sick, or... or something." Neither one of them wants to say, _Maybe he's passed out drunk_. Paddy's had nearly fifteen years of sobriety, other than that one night at the first Sparta – and that had been under extreme emotional stress. There's been nothing like that recently as far as Kelly knows.

As she's been talking, Tommy's been driving straight to Pop's house from church. He pulls up in front, right behind the newish Buick Lacrosse he and Brendan had bought to replace the old gold Buick, when it finally quit running. "The car's here," she thinks out loud. Turning to Tommy, she holds her hand out. "Give me the spare key."

"I can do it," he says, but she can tell that he's on edge.

She doesn't think Paddy would hurt her, even if he's drunk. She'll be on her guard, but she doubts she'll need to be. "Listen, baby, just give me the key. It'll be all right. I'll call your cell if I need you." What she's more worried about is if Paddy's fallen and hurt himself, he'll need medical attention.

Tommy bites his lip, but he pulls the spare key to Paddy's house off his key ring and hands it over. "I'm coming too," Ryan says, and makes to hop out his door, but Kelly tells him to sit down. She's starting to feel odd about this whole thing.

She rings the doorbell once, twice. No answer. She looks over her shoulder at Tommy in the truck, then knocks loudly, calling out, "Paddy? Hey Paddy, it's Kelly." There's muffled noise from inside, but still no answer.

She uses the key. From the front door you're practically standing in the living room, and there he is, sitting in his recliner. The TV's on. There's a mug full of coffee on the lamp table next to him and the lamp's on; his Bible is in his lap. Paddy's eyes are open behind his reading glasses and his face is calm, but he's no longer there.

This looks like heart attack to her. She's seen it hundreds of times in the ER. But she's very moved. Paddy has always been kind to her, and perhaps this may have been one of the kinder deaths she's seen. She kneels by his chair, taking his hand and automatically feeling for the pulse that she knows won't be there. His rigid hand is cold, and its skin softer than she remembers. _Oh, Tommy,_ she thinks, and tears sting her eyes. _You just got your dad back. You haven't had nearly long enough with him._

She's about to get up and go to the truck to talk to him when the door opens and Tommy is there, looking at her and then at his father. His face doesn't change immediately, but he must know as well as she does what's happened, because he turns away, making an inarticulate noise of anguish. He leans his forehead on the wall.

Kelly gently sets Paddy's hand back on his thigh, and goes to her husband, putting her arm around his waist and her head on the back of his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, baby." There's a very fine tremor running through his body but he's not crying. "Heart, I think. He would have had maybe five minutes of pain... maybe less." She's thinking of all the damage done to Paddy's body by the years of drinking. Every organ is affected: liver, obviously, but also kidneys, lungs, brains and heart, in particular. It's not uncommon for old alkies to have heart problems; Paddy had always been reticent about his own health.

"Take the kids home," he says, his voice dark and graveled.

"I don't want to leave you alone," she says.

"I'm okay," he says, and stands up. He's not okay, but he's a man: he needs a purpose right now. She puts the other arm around him and holds on, feeling his face close to hers and his nose at her neck, breathing her in the way he does when he needs to feel grounded. "So whadda we do, call 911?"

"Yes. To report it. I can, unless you want to."

"I want you to take the kids home," he repeats, sounding annoyed. "Then... yeah, come back. I just... I need to be here. With somethin' to do. I can report it and talk to the authorities when they get here." As usual in times of stress, his Pittsburgh accent is strong.

"Okay," she says. "Keys in the truck?" He nods. "I'll be back. The kids can make sandwiches on their own, they'll be fine. Do you want to tell them?"

"You do it," he says. "They don't need to come in. Go on now." She pulls his face down to kiss him very tenderly and then she goes.

"What's going on?" Martin wants to know when she gets back to the truck, and she tells him they're going home. He gives her a stare from the back seat, but he seems to pick up on her mood and doesn't ask more questions.

Inside the house, she tells them. Ryan, eight years old and the light of his grandfather's eye, is immediately in floods of tears. "_Now_ who's gonna be so happy to see me?" he wails, and she spends the next fifteen minutes on the couch holding her two younger ones. Martin, who's almost 18, is fond of Paddy too, so she spares a minute for him, telling him that he's in charge and she needs to go support Tommy. He nods, sniffling a little.

When she gets back to Paddy's, there's an ambulance and a police car out front, and since it's the middle of the day plenty of people are out on their stoops to see the shape on the gurney. She parks down the street and goes in, explaining to the cop at the door who she is. Tommy, standing in the kitchen, sipping at a glass of water, is answering questions and looking very remote, as if there's some kind of curtain down behind his eyes. She goes straight to him, touching his arm and recognizing his look of gratitude before the curtain comes down again.

And now she's answering the cop's questions too, as the ambulance leaves, the siren blatting for two seconds as it pulls out and then going silent. When the cops are gone, Tommy sinks down into a chair at the dining room table, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. "Gotta call Bren," he says. "And then Father di Salvo."

"Why don't you take it easy?" Kelly asks softly. "I can call."

"Need somethin' to do," he answers in the same tone, and dials.

Brendan's in Pittsburgh by 8:30 pm. Martin picks him up at the airport to bring him back to the house. "How is he?" he asks Kelly when he comes in.

"Wrecked. Trying to keep himself busy." They hug. "I'm so sorry, Brendan. I know it's hard."

Brendan just nods. When Tommy comes upstairs from the laundry room, where he's been obsessively straightening things, he goes straight for his brother's arms, open for him. They hold on to each other tight for several minutes before Brendan takes his things up to the guest room, the one that's Jack's when he's home and not off at college. They stay up late, talking in the kitchen. Kelly's in and out, taking care of mundane things like getting the house ready for guests and making sure that the kids have proper clothing.

Kelly is drained from her own sadness, from riding herd on her weepy, touchy younger children and from calling people who would need to know. She can't stay awake. She hastily washes her face and brushes her teeth and collapses into bed, knowing she'll wake when Tommy comes in. She's worried about him.

The next day passes in a blur, Tommy and Brendan making all the arrangements. They found an envelope in the drawer of the small table Paddy used for paying bills, labeled _Funeral,_ and it's been helpful, listing a few hymns Paddy had wanted and the location of his pre-purchased plot at Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Greenfield, as well as the key to his safe deposit box.

Kelly and Tess have been busy answering the door and greeting people who've brought food, and they've been at their wits' end keeping the younger children – Patrick, age 11, Mary Kate, age 10, and Ryan, age 8 – occupied. Tess brought Jack with her from U Penn, which is in Philly, and they stopped in College Station to get Emily too. Rosie and Martin, a junior and senior in high school respectively, are wandering around morosely; Jack's doing what he can to keep everyone's spirits up, talking football with his brother and giving the girls gentle hugs.

"After all this time," Tess says softly, during a moment at which they're setting food out and trying to encourage family members to eat a little something before they go to the funeral home for the wake. She shakes her head, almost as if she's talking to herself. Then she looks at Kelly and takes her hand. "After all that time, you know, being afraid of him or being angry at him for Brendan's sake... I had finally learned to trust him some. I am actually going to miss him."

"I know," Kelly replies. Paddy was stubborn and extremely protective of his privacy, but he'd always been kind to her, and gentle with the children. And proud beyond measure of Tommy, even though they occasionally butted heads.

She's _worried _about Tommy. He's been silent on the subject of his own feelings, which is never a good thing, and even last night when he'd come to bed he'd done no more than fling a heavy arm around her and spoon her close like usual – and he'd gone straight to sleep, not even kissing her. And this morning he'd been up and gone for a run very early, not snuggling her in bed as she'd thought he might.

She's on the verge of cornering him and begging him to talk to her, but there's never enough time to do that before they have to leave the house for the wake. And even at the funeral home, he's restless. Can't sit still or stand still, except during the short Rosary service, and she sees that the prayers are giving him at least some small bit of relief. But then other people come to talk to him, and he can't manage more than five minutes' worth of conversation at a time before disappearing – outside, or the men's room, or outside again. It's raining, so that doesn't help. When he's inside, he's touching people, seeming to seek comfort in the feel of Mary Kate's curls under his hand, or Ryan's lively fidgeting next to his side. When he's near Kelly, he avoids her eyes but his hand is tight on hers, or his arm firm on her shoulders. These little episodes of touch don't last long, because he seems unable to be in one place for very long at a time.

She's taken Ryan and Mary Kate up to the bier to look at their grandfather in the open casket. She's already explained that Grandpop's not in his body anymore, that he believed in Jesus and his soul has gone to be with God. She's not going to try to explain Purgatory to them; she doesn't quite understand the concept herself. And her children aren't Catholic, though they've gone to Catholic services from time to time all their lives.

Mary Kate looks in first. She's quiet at first, blinking several times, and then she looks up at her mother. "Can I touch him? Does he feel weird?"

It will feel weird, Kelly explains, but certainly Mary Kate can touch gently if she wants to. People even sometimes kiss the deceased. Mary Kate firms her lips and reaches one hand to rest it on her grandfather's. "Goodbye, Grandpop," she whispers. "I'll see you in heaven... I love you." She turns from the casket and goes straight to Kelly, burying her wet face in her mother's dark blue dress. Kelly holds her until Mary Kate's crying has slowed, and then she pats, offering one of the spare handkerchiefs she has in her purse.

Ryan's been hanging back, which is not like him, but he adored his grandfather to a ridiculous degree. He too is clutching onto his mother, leaning his head on her arm. "Do you want to go see?" Kelly asks him softly. "It's okay if you don't right now. You'll get a chance tomorrow before it's closed. But if you think you want to, you should go ahead and look at Grandpop. He's not scary."

She's used to this aspect of funerals. She'd surprised Tess earlier in the day by telling her that in rural Virginia when Kelly was young, it was the custom to "lay out" the dead in the front parlor, and for at least one member of the family to sit up with the deceased so that the body was never alone. She'd "sat up" with Great-Aunt Nell when Granny Lizzie – who was Kelly's great-grandmother – died, until she'd fallen asleep in the chair and Uncle Roy carried her to bed. "I thought that was a Catholic custom," Tess had said. Maybe it's just an Irish custom; Kelly doesn't know for sure.

Ryan pulls at her hand so that she comes with him to the bier. Ryan alone of his generation of the family has his father's smoky eyes, darker than anyone else's in the family, and when he looks up at her, worried and sad, she has to blink back tears. She nods at him, so he turns back to the casket and reaches a hand in to touch Paddy's arm in its suit jacket. He doesn't say anything right away, just runs his hand up the arm to Paddy's cheek, which he pats gently. "I love you, Grandpop," Ryan says, and then bursts into tears again as he's been doing sporadically over the past day. He turns back to Kelly and cries with a little boy's pure grief, which Kelly is not inclined to squelch despite the few censorious glances she's getting. He's a kid, he should be allowed to feel his feelings.

When Ryan stops crying and has blown his nose, he says, "Mommy, he's not _in_ there anymore. I miss him."

"I know, honey." She hugs him until he decides he wants to go talk to Patrick and Mary Kate.

There are a lot more people at the wake than she'd expected – several older men in suits and VFW hats, and a good dozen or so people she only knows by first name, whom she thinks might have been Paddy's friends from AA. People from church. People from the gym, and colleagues of hers from the hospital. Tommy's friends, and some of Brendan's. A distant cousin. Two old school friends who happened to see the obituary in the paper today.

When the storytelling starts, she's fascinated by the different facets of her father-in-law: his VFW buddies remember him as a raconteur, a man who could tell stories in the old-fashioned Gaelic way, with detail and humor. "Paddy could spin a tale," one of them says fondly, and the rest nod. "When he told one, you'd be right there with him. He had some great stories about the nurses at China Beach, remember those? And he could make you laugh your behind off, talkin' about the guys booby-trappin' a cache of beer cans once..."

The friends from school remember him as charming, friendly, handsome, and a bit of a practical joker. There's a story about Paddy convincing a seventh-grade teacher that he'd been excused from all math tests on account of his uncontrollable impulse to wet his pants when he got nervous (all completely bogus, of course). There are stories of him dating two girls at once, neither one of them having any idea that he was sparking the other. A picture emerges of a young Paddy, quick with his fists but quicker with his tongue, creating trouble and slipping out of it with ease.

She catches Tommy's gaze across the room during one of these stories, and he immediately looks away, won't meet her eyes again. Instead, he slips his arm around Martin's shoulder for a side hug, ruffles his nephew Patrick's hair, and turns away to pick up a plastic cup of water. She can see by the set of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, that he is tense and upset.

"Oh, you did _not _want to make him mad, though," one of the VFW guys is saying, shaking his head, and there's a chorus of agreement. "Somebody started one of those 'Rangers are tougher than Marines' discussions once down at the post, and Paddy had had a few, and the friendly discussion ended up with poor Howie Green conked out on the floor, missing two teeth."

"Oh, I remember that," another veteran says. "I was there. And I was there the next time it came up, too – that one ended with Paddy going after Ron Petzold with a broken beer bottle. We got it away from him because he was pretty sloshed, but it was a close one."

Kelly glances at Tommy again, who's still on the outside of the group, but his shoulders have subtly relaxed. She wonders whether all the Paddy-was-a-great-guy tales are just making his memories harder to bear, and inches her way across the room to slip her arm around his waist. "Hey, you," she says softly. "You hanging in there? Come talk to me."

"Hell, no," he says just as softly, into her hair. "I'll fuckin' lose it. Can't have that."

"Nobody would bat an eye," she tells him. "Can I help?"

He leans his head back and looks at her – he can be so intense sometimes – but then pulls her close and kisses her forehead. "Nah. Later. Right now I'm holdin' it together."

From across the room, Rosie calls in her clear voice, "Daddy? Will you tell some stories about Grandpop?"

Tommy inhales sharply, tensing as Brendan answers her. "No, sweetie, I'm not up to that right now. But I'd love to hear some stories from the grandchildren. You start, okay? How about the time he took you sledding?"

The stories that follow are sweet ones, centering around Paddy cheering from the bleachers at baseball and softball and football games, in the audience for piano recitals and band concerts, sitting in his easy chair at home explaining the nuances of a 4-4 stack defense or the ground rule double. He taught them how to roast a marshmallow, how to light a bottle rocket from a safe distance, and how to play poker. Paddy had relaxed considerably around children by the time young Patrick came along, and the younger kids have anecdotes of Grandpop pushing them on the swings, reading stories, even playing Barbies with Mary Kate.

"You tell one," Tommy whispers in Kelly's ear, and nudges her toward the center of the group as he fades toward its outer edge again. So Kelly talks about how Paddy had learned to deal with her emotional outbursts by just hugging her through them, and how she'd taught him to cook eggs without frying them to leather and heat things up in the microwave without automatically using HIGH power, but could never manage to teach him how to make pie crust.

One of the VFW buddies is encouraging Brendan to speak. "Come on, professor, tell us a story about your dad. We know you got plenty."

Brendan shifts his shoulders a little inside his suit jacket, looking uncharacteristically awkward. He looks across the room at Tommy, and begins to speak, with none of his usual polish. "You know... one of the best times of my life was goin' to Three Rivers Stadium to see the Pirates play when I was a kid. Just me and Tommy and Pop, at a baseball game. I think we went twice. Good times."

There's a small awkward silence, as it becomes clear that's all Brendan's got to say. Ryan, already a devout Pirates fan who has loved his trips to PNC Park with Grandpop, asks breathlessly, "Did they win?"

Brendan smiles. "Once they did, and once they didn't. Didn't matter, those were good father-son days."

One of the veterans comments to Brendan, "He was prouda you. Prouda both of ya," and he gestures to Tommy. "'My boys,' he'd say. 'Both of 'em smart and both of 'em stubborn as mules,' and he'd shake his head but you could tell he was about to bust, so proud. And we'd give 'im hell because he was just as stubborn."

Kelly slips toward the outside of the group again, working her way to her husband around it. "Oh, and he was so proud of that wrestling championship too," says one of the other VFW members. "Tommy boy, he talked about ya all the time. What a hard worker you were. How smart. He was a good coach, right?"

Everybody's looking at Tommy. He clears his throat. "Well – well, yeah. Now _that,_ he was good at."

"You got some good memories of that, huh?" the same veteran asks.

Tommy shakes his head. "Uh, not exactly. He was... demanding. But it paid off. Knocked myself out, tryin' to make him happy." He looks off to the side, blinking a little too rapidly.

Kelly's about to jump in and try to direct attention elsewhere, but Brendan beats her to it. "I was just thinkin' last night, about the time we took a vacation to Atlantic City. I was... maybe seven? I think seven, so Tommy woulda been five. And I remember Pop taking us for a walk along the beach, across the sand. He was holding our hands and talking to us about the sky, how you can tell whether it's going to rain by looking at the clouds. Every time I look up and wonder whether it's going to rain, I think of that day."

Kelly, her eyes wet now, finally gets to Tommy. He wraps his arms around her tightly, but then he simply kisses her cheek and whispers, "I need some air." He moves out of her embrace and he's gone, out the back door.

Finally, toward the end of the evening, she goes out the back again looking for Tommy. He's standing in the wet with Brendan, their backs to her. "I remember that day," Tommy says. "How big Pop's hands were." He seems about to say something else, but he stops.

Brendan picks it up. "You're right, Pop and his hands. It's funny, I can't think about him without remembering his hands, the size of them. The weight."

"Yeah. When he hit you, you damn well knew you'd been hit," Tommy says. There's a pause. Kelly wants to step out there and hold him, but something in the set of his shoulders stops her. He needs this, the connection with his brother. Both of them veterans of the veteran.

Brendan says, "You know, it's ironic... but I find myself wanting a drink. Whiskey. The rawer, the better."

"Me too," Tommy says, stepping closer to his brother so that their shoulders touch.

"It's sick," Brendan says. "I mean, I can handle alcohol, thank God, and I'd love for the edges of this horrible day to go a little fuzzy for a while. But something just won't let me."

"I know," Tommy says. "Even more than that, I'd love a Percocet or three. But those are probably riskier for me than the booze. So I'm stuck with the rest of it."

"The rest of what?"

"The stuff I do to deal with shit. None of which I can go do right at the moment." There's a small silence, in which Brendan's head is turned inquiringly toward Tommy's. "You know: Run. Murder a heavy bag for two hours. Fuck my wife into the mattress." Kelly shivers just a little in anticipation; she's been expecting something like this from Tommy for the past day and a half. It's happened from time to time over the years, in times of stress; the words get blocked up inside him and it takes some kind of physical release to shake his emotions loose, so he can express them.

"Jesus, Tommy." The years of being a teacher are too much to shake off, and Brendan's voice sounds reproving.

"Shaddup. You deal with your own shit however you like, I don't need editorials." The words are harsh, but Tommy's voice is unsteady, the way it gets when he's emotional.

Brendan doesn't reply. He simply turns and takes his younger brother into his embrace, and Tommy hugs back. After a good three minutes, Tommy says, "It helps," and keeps holding on, so Kelly goes back inside to collect up the children to go home.

The house is packed since Brendan and Tess and the kids are staying with them. Jack and Martin are crashing on the futon on the sunporch, and everybody else doubles up, and there's lots of jockeying around for assigned shower times, but by eleven everyone's in bed, or at least quiet in their rooms with the doors closed.

Tommy has still not said much to Kelly, though throughout the evening he's been touching her from time to time, with a gentle hand across her hair or a squeeze of her fingers. All quite chaste gestures, clearly made for comfort. Now, in their bedroom, she hopes he'll take that avenue of touch. She'd _rather_ he talks, but if he wants to, he can have her all night. If he wants to sleep instead, she'll let him. There's time for all of this. He finishes brushing his teeth and flicks off the bathroom light, coming back into the bedroom in just his boxers.

"Baby," she says, "_talk_ to me."

He meets her gaze. "Not with words." The look in his eyes makes her feel like crying – he's hurting so badly. If she can distract him from that pain, she will be grateful. "Tonight," he says, getting into bed with her and taking her into his arms, "I wanna go as long as we can, okay? Stop and start if we need to. And then..." he kisses her, slow and deep, "then, when I can't hold out anymore, _voy a cogerte tan duro que romperemos la cama._"

It goes like that for a long time, intense but leisurely. Kisses and caresses and whispered words of love, words of pure sexual arousal. He wanted the lamp on, saying, "You have to be quiet tonight, but I want to see you come. I need to see your face."

They keep changing positions. She's not sure how long it goes on, except that she reaches orgasm five times and he's nearly come twice, pulling out and stopping everything for a moment or two and going back down on her until he's ready to go again. Until finally she can tell that his will to keep it up is faltering, that he won't be stopping anymore tonight. No. He's reached the end of his tether, and he's going to go flying off it any second.

They do not, thank goodness, actually break the bed. But things go increasingly out of control, Tommy's hand wrapping itself into Kelly's hair and tugging a little, the other hand bruisingly tight on her hips and his thrusts fast and forceful. Knowing that he's about to finish this time, she lets go, too overwhelmed to try to be quiet, and he's too far gone to be quiet either. She can feel the force of his release, the heat of it, and then he's collapsed on the bed, boneless and spent.

It's what he's wanted all night, to be distracted enough to not think. While on the one hand, this is a fairly healthy way of diverting his attention away from pain, she still thinks he needs to open up, let some of that dammed-up emotion out. She pulls the sheet up over them, curling up with her head on his shoulder. "Better, baby?"

He might have gone to sleep there for a minute or two, because he startles a little. "Yes," he whispers back, his voice gravelled but lighter than before. "Better. God, I love you so much. You okay?"

"Very okay." She pauses a moment. "I made you an appointment with Anthony for tomorrow at five." He's been down to once-monthly check-ins with Anthony for a couple of years now, but she figured a session could not hurt at this time.

"Thank you. Probably gonna need it." He yawns, and runs his hand down her back to her butt. "Baby. I would not be makin' it through this without you. Without knowin' you got my back and you'll be there to keep me standin' up."

"I absolutely got your back."

He turns his head to kiss her. "Been a _fucking_ awful day. I'm sorry I was such a prick all night."

"You weren't so bad. I mean, people could probably tell you were miserable, but when your parent dies, people make allowances for misery."

"You know what it made me think of," he says softly. "Mom. We didn't have a wake. Vigil at the funeral home, that was it. Father Sebastian and me sayin' the rosary together, that was all. And maybe eight people other than the priest at the funeral Mass."

"Lonely."

"Yeah." He strokes her back again, settles her more comfortably against his chest. "That was then. This is now. Now is way better." He sighs heavily. "Even with Pop gone. – Listen," he says suddenly, "I want... I need a few minutes alone with him tomorrow. At the funeral home, I guess. In private."

"Okay." Of course he wants privacy. She kisses his shoulder, and just like that, he's asleep. She spends a few minutes thinking of her own father, of how he'd looked in the coffin before they closed it. _I miss you, Daddy. You and Tommy's dad look after each other, you hear?_

* * *

The morning of the funeral, Tommy wakes early, even though he and Kelly had been up late last night. He breathes in the scent of her neck, letting it connect him to the good thing his life is now. She's got a hickey on her collarbone, and he hopes the clothes she's planning to wear today will cover it. No, that's dumb – she'll make sure it's covered.

The realization of what today is washes over him and he almost groans out loud.

Fuck this shit, he's got to get out. He needs some damn privacy, and there's really only one way he can get it. He slides out of bed and opens dresser drawers quietly, digging out some trackies and a t-shirt to go running in. Spring's just starting to roll in, so it's still too cold for shorts. He doesn't grab any gloves, but he needs his watch cap. Funny after all this time, it still feels almost like part of him – the one piece of PT uniform he held on to.

Damn, he misses the Corps.

He slips out of the house and warms up slowly, circling the block once before he picks up the pace. He passes Mrs. Hirschbein out walking her poodles, and waves, just a quick hand motion. He can't talk now. Maybe not later, either. He's got the uncomfortable feeling that all his words are bottled up at the back of his throat. Jiggling them loose is going to be difficult, because when they do come loose, all those... feelings... are going to come with them. Better they stay bottled, then. Pop would hate it if he lost his composure in public.

He runs, gradually hitting a good pace. Well, a good pace for a man forty-three years old, of course. He doesn't run like he used to. Running's always been a good distraction for him, because his mind can disengage and his body makes endorphins. But today Pop is there in his head, just as if he were following Tommy through the dark in the old Buick. Pop's voice in his head, urging and urging. He's not sure whether it's good, or painful. It's maybe both.

He goes approximately four miles after warming up, and his watch says it's time to get back, so he can have that private moment with Pop's body before everyone else comes. He takes a short, nearly-cold shower when he gets back, so that he won't use up the hot water, and gets dressed. He has a black suit, of course, even though he still won't wear a tie. It'll be fine with his midnight-blue shirt. He puts on his dress shoes, and goes down to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. He's not really hungry, but he makes himself eat. It's going to be a day of physical demand; he needs the fuel. A hard-boiled egg, a banana, a piece of whole wheat toast. Another cup of coffee, but not too much of it or his nervous system will get the shakes.

He still can't talk much, the dam of words in his throat is too fragile. Ryan is clingy today, and it is working his _last fucking nerve_, but he manages to remove his son's arm gently from around his waist. "Hey, buddy," he says, feeling his breath rasp in his throat, "let go a' me now, okay?"

"But I'm sad," Ryan says, and his eyes well with tears.

_Fuck. It._

He stands up and goes out the kitchen door, fighting hard to keep from doubling over at the waist with pain. If he'd said anything like that to Pop when he was a kid, Pop woulda belted him and told him that a man doesn't cry. And even though Anthony and Brendan and Kelly have told him over the years that if he has tears, he should let them fall... well, he can't. Not today of all days. Not on this day when Paddy Conlon will certainly be watching.

There is a certain kind of shame in the way that he can't hold and comfort his kid the way he'd like to. Maybe everybody would be better off if he could. But he can't, not right now, not with the words all choked up in his throat. Not with the feeling that he can't release his grip at all.

When he's got his breathing back under control he goes inside again. Martin has picked Ryan up and is hugging him tight, Ryan's legs locked around his big brother's waist and his head on Martin's shoulder. "It's okay," Jack is saying to Ryan, while he stands next to Martin with his hand on Ryan's back. "Dad is having a rough time, he didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Listen, if you need hugs, hug me or Martin or Mom. Or MK. Anybody else. It's just hard... Dad can't hold his own sad and yours too. It would be like trying to carry an elephant around."

Jack is going to be a really good psychiatrist. Because just now, Tommy had that little shock to the base of the spine, that little _click _he feels when he hears something true. It is true, he can hardly bear his own feelings.

It was probably also true of Pop, he realizes. Pop had feelings he couldn't deal with, and he couldn't stand the additional weight of anybody else's emotion. He looks up and catches Brendan's gaze. Brendan, looking at him steadily over his coffee mug, nods once. Brendan knows.

Tommy goes over to his boys. "I'm sorry, honey," he says to Ryan. "I know you're sad." He puts an arm around Ryan and another one around Jack, encompassing Martin as best he can in the middle. It's difficult, because both Jack and Martin are taller than he is. "Thank you," he says to Jack and Martin. "You guys take care of each other today, okay?" He can see the sadness on the older boys' faces too, but they're steady. They'll stick together.

"Sure, Tommy," Jack says, holding to the convention that he and Martin adopted when Mary Kate was born: when they speak to Tommy or mention him to someone else, they call him Tommy, and when they speak of him to their half-siblings, he's Dad. Probably nobody else outside the family would even notice. But Tommy knows, just as he knows that Mike Porter, buried in Philly six years ago, is on their minds today.

Kelly and Tess, both in modest black dresses with scarves softly draped around their necks, come into the kitchen, their heels clicking on the floor. They're talking, and Kelly's adjusting Tess' olive green scarf more evenly. "And I think we need to take three vehicles, there are eleven of us and it's just not practical to jam us all into two cars." She turns around and heads for the coffee pot, pouring mugs for herself and Tess. "Ryan, have you finished eating?"

"Yes, Mommy," Ryan says from the shelter of his brothers' and fathers' arms, and when Kelly sees him, her face goes soft.

"Well, go and brush teeth, then, and I laid your clothes out for you. Call me if you need help."

"No, I'll help," Martin says. "Ryan and I are buddies today. Come on, dude." He heads for the stairs with his little brother.

Tommy sighs, he's not sure why, and Kelly's eyes flick to him for a sweet second. The twilight blue of her own scarf makes her eyes look paler, clearer than usual, and for some reason it hurts, a sharp achy pain in Tommy's chest.

"Thanks, honey," Kelly calls to Martin, going to the table with her coffee. When she sits down, she winces a little, biting her lip, and Tommy suddenly feels like complete shit. There are maybe too many echoes of the past banging around his head this morning, and he's suddenly terrified.

He takes two steps to the table, taking her wrist in his hand and tugging at it. _Look at me. Tell me you are okay, that I didn't hurt you last night._ He says all this without words, guilt stinging his eyes. His heartbeat has picked up and he's close to panic.

The surprise on her face melts into understanding. She sets down her coffee and takes his other hand in her free one. "I am fine," she says, her voice soft and reassuring. "A little sore. It's nothing." She lets go his hand and makes an X on her chest, smiling tentatively. "Cross my heart, baby, that's straight up." He leans down and checks her expression again, but she seems her normal self. He takes a deep breath and nods, and she puts her hand on his cheek, lifting her face to kiss him.

The touch of her lips feels right, all velvety soft, and she smells good, and he breathes deeply again. He kisses back this time, a sweet pressure of mouth on mouth, and puts his forehead against hers for a minute. When he pulls back he can talk. "I need to go early. Things to do." Surely she'll remember what he said last night. She nods, runs her finger down his cheek.

"I'm goin' too," Brendan says. "Will that free up enough space in the other cars, or should Jack go with us?"

"Just us," Tommy says, and as he says it he realizes that he may have hurt Jack's feelings too but he can't deal, he just _can't. _He throws Jack a look of apology.

"It's fine, I'm looking after Patrick," Jack says. "I'll see if Emily will be Mary Kate's partner today, that ought to give each of the younger kids at least one older buddy as well as moms." He smiles at Tommy, his eyes warm, and Tommy ought to thank him but he's afraid to open his mouth again.

Upstairs, Tommy grabs two clean handkerchiefs out of his dresser, folding them neatly into pockets along with his wallet. He sets his cell phone for silent vibrate, where he can hear it if Kelly or Tess has to call him, and puts that into his pocket too. Brendan appears at the bedroom door. "Ready?" he asks.

Tommy nods.

They take the truck, and he's okay driving. Physical stuff, he can do that. Talk? Hell no. "What is it we have to do here?" Brendan asks as he pulls into the funeral home parking lot. He parks, pulls the key out of the ignition, and pockets it. He can't answer, just makes a gesture with one hand. "Okay," Brendan says, matter-of-fact. "You want some private time?" Tommy nods.

Brendan goes to speak with one of the directors at the home, and Tommy goes into the viewing room where Pop was last night. He closes the door and walks toward the prie-dieu set up near the casket. He hadn't been able to do this last night, especially not after Ryan's tears. He just. Couldn't.

Because under all the sadness and loss there is a frightening anger running through his veins.

He should be thinking of how good it is that not one of Pop's grandchildren remembers him in fear. He should be thinking of how Pop came back to the Church and turned his life around, how Pop turned out to be a real father. But he's _too angry._

Pop dead is undeniably a reminder of Mom dead. And Pop was the _reason_ for Mom being dead so young. Fine, not directly. Pop didn't give her cancer, but still. Pop was the reason Mom was broke and scared and unable to see a doctor until it was too late. _Fuck._ And yet Tommy has obligations here. Because Pop did do things that fathers do. He provided a house and food on the table. He spent hours and hours with Tommy, teaching and coaching... and yelling insults.

There's just so much going on in Tommy's head right now, just endless looping thoughts of fear and regret and guilt, of loss and love and sadness and a stubborn pride in Pop's sticking it out with his sobriety. A stubborn pride in himself and in Brendan, for surviving Monster Pop.

He shakes his head. He no longer has rosary beads of his own; he'd given the ones that had been Mom's to Rosie, her namesake, on the occasion of Rosie's First Communion. And he'd made sure to give the funeral home Pop's rosary, so that it could be placed into his hands in the casket. It's there; he saw it last night. The basic prayers are still part of him, though. He can practically say those in his sleep, even after all this time. He says them now, not looking at his father's body in the casket. He prays, silently but lips moving, until his heart rate has slowed and he feels the Presence. Then he prays words of his own: deep thanks for his family, a plea for strength to survive the day. A plea for God to consider his servant, Patrick, to forgive all his sins and take him into Heaven with the angels. Amen.

And now he can look into his father's face for the first time since he'd seen Pop sitting up in the chair, unquestionably dead. The embalmers have been at work, and Pop doesn't look awful, but he looks dead. He's "not _in_ there," as Ryan had said last night. Tommy has been dreading this, dreading looking at yet another person he loves dead and gone... but Pop's face is… peaceful.

If he'd stood up then, he will think later on, if he'd just gotten up and turned away and gone to find Brendan, he'd have escaped the storm. However, he doesn't do that. He looks at Pop's face, slack on its bones, and begins to feel the faintest swell of... is that relief? Relief that it's all over, maybe.

His gaze falls on Pop's hands, holding his rosary.

In the Corps, he'd done an Advanced Water Survival course that involved dealing with, among other things, water hazards like heavy surf. The instructors would take you out in a boat, in cammies and boots, with standard gear, and then dump you in, telling you to get to shore. The first day he'd nearly drowned, swamped with walls of water from the enormous waves. What he's feeling now? It's a lot like being hit in the face with one of those big mothers. You don't know which way is up or where the shore is, or how to deal with anything. You hold your breath until the water calms, you find a hole with air in it, and you just - survive.

At the moment, he is reeling under the weight, the force, of memories, playing out in his head one after another, like video clips. Pop's hands…

Taping Tommy's hands for Sparta.

Wrapped around a whiskey bottle.

Cooking Tommy breakfast.

Holding Tommy's and Brendan's hands on the beach in AC.

Tinkering with the Buick's engine.

Throwing a plate of food at Mom.

Massaging Tommy's legs and back after a workout, getting the tension out.

Holding Mom still by the hair with one hand, slapping her face with the other.

Sliding into those old-school boxing gloves for a match, the way he used to when Tommy was little.

Backhanding Tommy into the doorframe for talking too much.

Holding his baby grandson.

Reaching around Tommy's body, gripping Tommy's hands and showing him the motions of tying a tie.

Pushing his granddaughter on a swing.

Breaking Tommy's little-kid pinky – deliberately, and with malice.

Clapping at Martin's high school football game.

Shaking Tommy's illicit pill bottles_, ch-ch-ch._

Shoving Brendan out of the way so he could go back to punching Mom.

Counting beads of Mom's rosary with Tommy, his hand over Tommy's.

All the love and all the sheer fucking hell, all of it bound up in those hands. _Jesus God,_ _Pop_… how can he stand it? How can he stand to go through this service today, his kids and Brendan's kids thinking their Grandpop was the best guy in the world? How can he feel all this shit at one time when nobody should have to live through it? If Pop had been all monster, Tommy could have written him off without a backward glance or a regret. But if Pop had been Good Pop all the time… Tommy's _whole fucking life _would have been different. And maybe Mom would still be here, maybe Tommy would never have had to deal with the guilt and the loss. He'd given up so much to leave. He'd lost wrestling and his father and his brother. And then he'd lost Mom. And the whole shitty thing had been Pop's fault.

The what-ifs are fucking killing him, and he's not aware that he's still kneeling at the prie-dieu, hands and jaw clenched, just trying to keep his head from exploding, until he feels the arm across his shoulder. Hears his brother's voice in his ear, "Hey – hey Tom, hey, come here. Come sit down, okay?"

"Can't," he grits out through his teeth, but he does get up, and he leans into Brendan's arms. He's blowing like a whale, just trying to keep oxygen going in and out. Just trying to hang on to himself, trying to keep a grip.

"I know," Brendan says, holding him close. "I used to pray that he would die. Before you and Mom left? I just wanted him to_ stop_, but he wouldn't stop drinking and he wouldn't stop making Mom cry, and he wouldn't stop being such a sonofabitch. So I figured it would be better if he died, just so I wouldn't have to feel so torn about him anymore. If he was dead, I wouldn't have to hate him. Because sometimes I loved him. Sometimes I really loved him."

Tommy hated Pop. But he loved him too. Yes. Brendan's right, _torn_. He tries to say that, and he can't, what's coming out of him is racking sobs that shake his whole body and they feel like they might be tearing him into pieces as well, just like being Pop's kid tore him up. He can't even fucking _breathe_, he's crying so hard, but he can't let go of Brendan, Brendan's holding him together in one piece. He only struggles for a few seconds, and then he just gives up and cries like a pussy. Just lets it roll.

At some point he notices that Brendan is crying too, and they're holding each other up. Which is, maybe, the way it ought to be.

With the dam broken, it is easier to breathe, and being able to breathe eases his panic, and less panic means he stops shaking. He gets hold of himself. Hauls one of those cotton handkerchiefs out of his pocket and mops up, then gives the other to Brendan to do the same. When they're both calm he turns back to the casket, arm around his brother, and they stand there to look at Pop one more time. Brendan reaches over and touches Pop's hand lightly.

Tommy can talk again now. "That was it, you know? Lookin' at Pop's hands, it got to me. So much of what we are is in what we do. Good _and_ bad."

There's a long pause. Brendan sniffles.

"It's like…" Tommy searches for words. Finds them. "Like when the wind blows really hard, and you have to lean into it to keep from fallin' down? Feels like we been doin' that all our lives, leanin' into Pop so he wouldn't blow us over. And now the wind's gone. I'm not quite sure what to do."

"Yeah," Brendan says. "I don't know how to be."

He takes a deep breath. "I guess we just… stand up."

It sounds very simple to him, but Brendan inhales, shakily, as if Tommy has said something profound. There's a small pause, and Brendan speaks again, his voice much lighter than before. "When did _you _get to be such a philosopher? About the same time you started carrying handkerchiefs like a grownup?"

"Oh, bite me, man," Tommy says without heat, squeezing Brendan's arm. "We are gonna be okay."

"Yes, we are." Brendan checks his watch. "They oughta be here in about twenty minutes. We should go wash up, we look like hell." He turns to Tommy and straightens his shirt collar for him, then his suit jacket.

"What, you gonna tie my shoes for me too?" The way Brendan used to do it, when Tommy was in kindergarten.

"Since you can't keep 'em tied, yeah."

_What?_ Tommy looks down, but his shoes are fine. Bren just suckered him. "Aw,_ bite_ me, you asshole." God, it's like middle school.

Brendan's grinning. He does look like hell, his eyes red and swollen and his hair tousled, so Tommy knows he looks just as bad. "It was a little funny. Sorry."

"It's okay." He looks at his brother, seeing how much Brendan looks like Pop. "Bren? Thank you."

"No. Thank _you_ for not fallin' for all that macho bullshit, 'men don't cry.' Men cry when there's somethin' worth cryin' about." Brendan takes a deep breath. "And thanks for not pretendin' that Pop was always the great guy he turned into later."

Tommy shakes his head. "Sooner or later we prob'ly oughta talk to the kids about what it was like… well, some of it. Not everything. And not today. But sometime, when they're able to understand."

Brendan nods in reply, and they head for the restroom to make repairs. They're pretty decent when the rest of the family shows, along with Father di Salvo. Ryan, despite Martin's grabbing for him, makes a beeline for Tommy. "Daddy, you okay?"

"I am gonna be okay. Do you need a hug, little guy?"

For answer, Ryan holds his arms out. Tommy picks him up, and then within seconds he's completely surrounded by family. Kelly's hand is small and warm and capable on his back, and during the prayers he is conscious of gratitude. For all Pop's screw-ups, he gave Tommy life. And life has become a thing that is precious. After the family prayers, before they head off to the church, Father di Salvo makes some personal remarks. He speaks briefly of knowing Paddy only during the latter part of his life, and of seeing redemption and hope at work in Paddy Conlon, a person who had faults and yet, in Christ, was a new creation. He speaks of hope, and of love.

Tommy is fully present in the Mass, but part of his mind is also engaged elsewhere. He's thinking of the first Sparta, fourteen years ago. Atlantic City, in the heat of July, all kinds of hell breaking loose in Tommy's life, him and Pop banging each other up in an emotional sense, Pop diving back into the bottle one last time. And Pop's words – drunken but having the ring of absolute truth, giving Tommy that shock at the base of his spine: _Oh, Tommy… I always loved you. You know that, don't you... You and your brother…. My two boys…_

And he's thinking of that dim November evening two years after, in this very church – in this very pew, even – when forgiveness became a way. Pop's hand on his, on Mom's rosary. Rosie's holding it now, a few seats down. _Pie Jesu, Domine, dona eis requiem_, he prays in between the formal prayers. Nowadays he normally prays in English, but this one comes most easily in the Latin. Grant them rest, merciful Lord Jesus.

There is quiet in his spirit now; everything is out of his hands, into God's.

At the committal service, at the cemetery, Tommy shivers briefly as a wind passes through. The season is on that cusp between winter and spring - it's cold, but the promise of warmth, of hope, is in the rich black smell of the wet spring dirt, and in the daffodil buds beginning to poke up through the ground. Tommy is secure enough in his own steadiness, in the firm support of Kelly's arm around his waist, to look around at everyone there. Ryan is still clutching tight to his brother Martin's hand, and Mary Kate and Emily have their arms around each other. Jack is standing between Patrick and Rosie, arms around them, and Rosie leans her head onto Jack's shoulder, tears rolling down her face. Jack lets go of Patrick long enough to reach into his pocket for his own handkerchief and give it to Rosie. Brendan is holding on to Tess' hand with both of his. There are the prayers, and a hymn, and each one of the family is given a flower to throw into the grave. It's a beautiful family, the family of Paddy Conlon.

_Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,_

_Et lux perpetua luceat eis,_

_Quia pius est._

May he rest in peace.


	12. Chapter 12: Christmas Wishes

**FDTR: Christmas Wishes**

**These two got married a few days before Christmas, remember? So here's some gooey family marshmallow fluff. They're newlyweds, though, so of course there's some citrusy goodness too.**

**Also, I'll point out that Kelly is seeing Midnight Mass through the eyes of a resolute evangelical Protestant... if she doesn't understand or get it right, it's because she doesn't know. **

"Why not? You wouldn't let me pay for anything wedding-related except my own clothes," Kelly says, hands on hips. She's very close to being frustrated. She knows she's got a stubborn streak, but that is nothing compared to Tommy's. She knows exactly what Great-Aunt Nell would say, "That boy's got a stubborn streak a mile wide." He does; she'll just have to find a way to work around it. Somehow.

He flips the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "That's right. Because what's mine is yours, and it's all coming out of the same pocket anyway." He leans back in the chair, pushing what's left of his breakfast to the side. "First thing we do when we get back to the 'Burgh is, I put you on my bank accounts."

Kelly rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, and sits down. Okay, she's just got be patient here. A little humor. "The _first _thing, _that's_ whatcha got? Dude, you got no imagination."

It works. He laughs. The toothpick actually falls on the table. "Okay, maybe not the_ first _thing." He picks up the toothpick and taps it on the table. "No, first thing I do is carry you into the house. And maybe the second thing I do is kiss you. Very thoroughly. The third thing – " he flashes her one of his sweet, wicked grins – "well, maybe that'll have to wait until the boys are in bed."

"That sounds more like it," she says demurely. "Okay, but listen: I really want to give you a Christmas present and you keep saying you don't want one. Which is frustrating the heck out of me, Tommy. How come I can't give you something?"

The grin slides away, leaving his face still happy, but serious. "'Cause I got everything I need, baby. You think I ain't gonna remember this Christmas, you're nuts."

She can feel her face getting pinched up. "I just don't want us to be – I don't want the gifts all flowing one direction, okay? I know you're not big on material things, I know that. And I know we said we were just going to spend money on the wedding this year. It's fine. But I want to do something for you. It doesn't have to be something I buy, either."

"Yeah?" He taps the toothpick on the table some more, looking thoughtful. "I got_ you._ And the boys. There's nothin' I really need."

He's so sweet. "But isn't there _something_ you want? Something that would make it feel like Christmas for you?" She wants to just spoil him a little, do something just for him.

He thinks a minute, looking down at the table. Shrugs. Taps the toothpick. "Okay. What I really want? I want to go to Midnight Mass. All of us. As a family."

She can't respond right away, the tears have just sprung into her eyes. He looks up, wary - as if she would turn down such a request. "Yes. We'll do that. That will be really good."

"Thank you," he says, softly. Reaches over and wipes her cheek where one tear has slipped down."You sure it's okay?" She nods, firmly. "So. If I get what I want, what do _you _want? 'Cause whatever it is, I wanna give it to you."

Her wish sounds really frivolous next to his, but she says it anyway. "I want you to kiss me. By the Christmas tree, on Christmas Eve, the same way you kissed me the first time you kissed me." He hasn't moved his hand from her cheek, so she leans into it and adds, "For a long time. That's what I want."

"Baby, you got it." He leans across the table and kisses her right in front of everyone in the hotel restaurant, and she has to fight the tears back again. _Nothin' sweeter than a sweet man._

8 * 8 * 8 * 8 * 8

They both get their wishes.

Christmas Eve morning, they check out of the inn where they'd gotten married and drive across town to exchange Christmas presents with Brendan and his family and then to have lunch. The kids receive books and new sweaters, and the adults have already made plans to take a week's vacation together this summer, between Tommy's second UFC fight and the buildup to Sparta IV, so that's their gift to each other.

And lunch is wonderful, a big meal because Tommy and Kelly and the boys will be driving the five hours to Pittsburgh in the afternoon and won't have time to have a nice Christmas Eve dinner. There's salmon with a dill cream sauce and scalloped potatoes with baby peas (of course Martin won't touch the cream sauce), and cooked apples, with cookies and Kelly's own grandmother's boiled custard recipe for dessert.

Kelly has a hard time saying goodbye, even though they'll definitely be seeing each other within a few months, and Rosie cries. Tommy has to promise her a picture of all of them with Bagel, emailed to her mother.

In the truck, Tommy turns to Kelly and asks, abruptly, "You got any electric candles?"

"Um... yeah. I usually put them in the windows, but I just didn't this year, I didn't have time after unpacking all the other stuff." She's apologetic. There just wasn't enough time to decorate everything she wanted to; the only things up are the stockings on the mantelpiece, the Christmas tree, the wreath on the front door, and of course her treasured ceramic Nativity scene on the coffee table. The boys have always been very gentle with it, fascinated with the depiction of Baby Jesus.

"No, it's okay... if there's one and it's not too hard to get to, I'd like to put it in a front window."

Kelly blinks. "Okay. I can probably find one without too much trouble."

He's quiet a minute. "Mom's tradition," he says softly. "One candle in the window, to show that the Holy Family is welcome."

"That's a good one," she replies just as softly. "I like it, we'll do it. Anything else?"

"I, um... I didn't really notice when I brought my stuff over last week," he confesses. "I was kind of in a hurry to get the clothes put away and hop in the truck. Couldn't wait to see you." He throws her a sweet grin.

The boys play with Star Wars figurines and watch "Finding Nemo" for the millionth time on Kelly's laptop in the back seat, and they don't whine. Too excited, probably, Kelly figures. After two bathroom stops, they both conk out for the last two hours' worth of the drive. Which is good, because they'll be up late this evening.

Dinner, at 8:30 pm, is deli-ham sandwiches and apple slices. Tomorrow she'll cook that beef roast that's currently thawing in the fridge, but there's no time tonight for something fancy. Tommy lugs all the suitcases upstairs while she takes care of things in the kitchen and the boys play with Bagel on the sunporch. Then while Tommy takes the dirty laundry down to the basement, she finds the box of electric candles and sets one up in the dining room window so that it shines out onto the front porch. It's beautiful.

She'd already put all the gifts under the tree, before they left for Philly last week. She and Mike never did the Santa thing, preferring to tell the boys that Christmas presents were from people that loved them. It's not that Kelly has anything _against _Santa, but she'd rather just be honest about where those gifts came from.

At ten, Kelly gets the boys dressed in gray corduroys and their new sweaters (forest green Fair Isle for Jack, bright red as always for Martin). "It's cold out, guys, so let's wrap up," she reminds them, handing them their knit caps and mittens and zipping up their jackets for them.

Martin would rather go bareheaded, but when he sneaks his cap off on the way out the front door, Tommy pulls it out of his hand and stuffs it back onto his head. "You heard your mama," he tells Martin. "And you hear _me_ now: it's cold. Hat on, no arguing. You can take it off when we're inside." He's got his own black watch cap on, so Martin can't whine too much about it. Kelly flashes Tommy a smile; he's so good with the boys, seems to understand how they're feeling even if they can't say it.

"Why are we doing this anyway?" Martin pouts. "We went to church _before _bedtime on Christmas Eve in Philadelphia."

"Because it's special to me," Tommy tells him, helping him into the seat behind the driver's in the truck. "I know it's different from your chuch in Philly, but I really wanna go, so it's like a present to me. Tell you what, you watch everything and you listen, and later you can tell me how it was different, okay?"

"It won't be totally different," Kelly tells Jack and Martin, over her shoulder as she's putting her seat belt on. "You might know some of the music, and it will be the same story about Jesus being born. Some of it will be different, though. There will be some prayers you don't know and some kneeling and standing up. And people will go up to the front for Communion, but we won't do that. What you guys need to do is sing when it's time to sing, and be quiet when it's time to be quiet. Got me?"

"How do we know?" Martin asks.

"How do you know what?" Kelly says.

"When it's time to do something."

"Oh. Well, watch Tommy, okay? He knows. And if you have questions you can ask, but you have to ask quietly and not disturb people."

"Okay, Mommy," Jack says.

When they get to St. Lawrence O'Toole and Tommy parks on the street, Kelly unhooks Martin from his booster seat and helps him out. Tommy's already held the door open for Jack on that side, and they walk to the church. A lot of people are outside, going in, and it's cold. She shivers a little until they walk into the brick building. Tommy goes over to the font and dips his fingers in, then crosses himself.

"What are you doing?" Martin asks when he rejoins them. "Why is there a birdbath in your church?"

Tommy laughs. "It's not a birdbath, it's holy water." He puts a hand on Martin's shoulder and steers him inside, looking back to make sure that Kelly and Jack are following. Luckily, Martin does not ask what "holy water" is.

They find a pew about halfway back and get situated with Martin sitting between then and Jack on Kelly's other side, letting the boys chatter quietly about the enormous Nativity scene at the front and the poinsettias and how pretty everything looks. The church is filling up with people in winter coats, and every now and then someone will wave at Tommy. He nods and smiles, but there's not a lot of greeting going on, as there would be at any church Kelly's been to.

Martin crawls onto Tommy's lap. Just then the choir comes in, and Kelly can see that they're mostly people from middle age to elderly, maybe a dozen of them. They start right in with Veni, Veni Emmanuel a capella in Latin, and Kelly sings along very softly, getting a puzzled look from her husband.

"You know that one?" he asks. She nods, still singing. "In Latin?"

She nods again. Points to herself and whispers, "Choir person. We know all the good stuff." The choir is small and not classically trained but nicely balanced, and the acoustics are good in the room, so their voices float over the quietly gathering crowd. She sings along, through Come to the Manger and In the Bleak Midwinter (the pretty one, the Holst setting), while Jack just sits and takes it in and Tommy's thigh is warm against hers, and Martin talks to Tommy about Christmas and candy. He's not loud, but he's got the chatties right now and it's probably due to his disturbed sleep cycle recently.

Kelly leans over to remind Martin to whisper. This, however, is a bad idea, because Martin's idea of "whisper" is something like "stage whisper in a large auditorium." He pops out with a question, just as the carol comes to an end. "How come all the Jesuses on the wall are dead?"

"Do _what _now?" Tommy asks, giving Kelly a half-amused, half-panicky look. "Talk softer."

"The Jesuses," Martin repeats patiently in his so-called whisper than can probably be heard three rows behind them. "On the wall. Jesus died on the cross, right?"

"Yes," Tommy says, obviously mystified. The next piece of music is a lovely version of O Holy Night, which Kelly does not even attempt to join in on because it's a solo.

"Well, how come we are talking about him getting borned when he already died on the cross?" He twists in Tommy's lap to point at a large crucifix. "There. See? Is he dead? 'Cause Jesus-died-on-the-cross."

"Um... yeah. That's him dead on the cross," Tommy says, still giving Kelly that hunted, oh-crap look. "What do you mean, '_all _the Jesuses'?"

"There's another one over there," Martin says, pointing.

"Where? Lemme see?" Jack asks (he's whispering, at least, but Kelly can tell this is going to get out of control).

Martin points. "And there was 'nother one on the wall when we came in. Over the birdbath."

The elderly woman sitting in front of them turns around and gives them the _Please manage your children _stare.

"We can talk about this later," Kelly says to her younger son, because she can tell that Tommy is fighting not to laugh. "You need to just listen and be quiet now."

"He _said_ I could ask," Martin insists, but Kelly gives him the Merciless Mom Glare.

"You are bothering people," she says. "_Stop._"

So Martin settles back onto Tommy's shoulder and just listens for a blessed period of time, while Kelly sings Still, Still, Still along with the choir and puts her arm around Jack to hug him close. Tommy leans over and whispers, "How come he knows about Jesus dying on the cross but he's never seen 'dead Jesus on the wall'?"

"Oh. Well, kids in evangelical churches hear about Jesus on the cross a lot, but they tend to not get exposed to the image." Tommy frowns in confusion, so she tries again. "There are crosses all over the place, but they're empty. Jesus didn't stay dead, I think that's the focus."

Jack whispers in her ear, wanting to know what time it is, and she tells him it's five minutes to midnight. Then the choir sings There Is a Flower, the beautiful John Rutter setting, and she remembers enough of it from college to sing the second soprano part. That gets her another startled glance from Tommy, and a whispered, "You know this one too?"

"It's _beautiful, _isn't it?" she whispers back during the baritone solo. He smiles and slips a hand down to hold hers. As the song finishes, there's an expectant hush, and the bell in the tower rings twelve. Martin and Jack, surprised, look up at the ceiling with their mouths open.

When the bell stops, the organ and handbell choir start right in, loud and joyful, with the intro to Adeste Fideles, and the choir director turns around and gestures for the congregation to rise and sing. People wearing robes go down the aisle near them, with censer and crucifix and other stuff in their hands, and voices rise all over the packed church, and _it is Christmas_. Kelly sings all the verses, sings the descant when it comes. She's singing through her tears, smiling, holding Jack's hand and Tommy's, suddenly overwhelmed with the joy of the moment.

Much of the service is incomprehensible to Kelly but lovely all the same. She knows what the censer is for, and the frankincense and myrrh smell lovely to her. Martin, though, keeps poking Tommy and asking questions, like, "What are those picture things on the wall?" and "Why is that thing on fire?" and "How come the smoke is stinky?" Luckily his voice is quieter now, and Tommy just smiles and answers the questions, in kid language.

He keeps up with the responses and the kneeling and the prayers, making sure Kelly knows what's going on. Martin, after his whispered "Why is that guy wearing a _dress?_" conversation with Tommy, gets shushed for the homily, and falls asleep on Tommy's lap.

When it's time for Communion and everyone is singing O Little Town of Bethlehem, Kelly whispers, "Want me to take him now so you can go up?" He shakes his head no. "C'mon, I'll take him," she encourages.

But he shakes his head again. "I can't. I didn't go to Confession. Knew I couldn't anyway, it's okay."

She's not getting the whole story, she can tell. But there isn't much point pushing Tommy to talk, ever, and especially not in the middle of something else he wanted to do, so she lets it slide. Puts her head over on his shoulder. He kisses her hair. And there they sit, a family, while the other people in their pew get up and pass them to go up to the front.

Martin wakes up partway through the last carol, Silent Night, and it's a good thing because the flame is being passed from candle to candle among the parishioners. It's _beautiful_. Kelly helps Jack hold his candle steady to receive the flame from the young mother on his other side, and then so he can pass it on to her. She kisses his head and then turns to light Tommy's candle. His eyes are deep and full of love, and Kelly can feel her own eyes echo that look.

She's loved him for months now, but she only loves him more every day.

And now the whole church is full of candlelight and happy faces, and the beauty of this place matches the beauty of her life lately, and she sends up a heartfelt prayer of thanks. _So much love, God, may it overflow out of me and spill out onto everyone I meet._

When they go outside afterward, Martin shuffling along like he's still half-asleep with his hand in Kelly's, Paddy's standing on the sidewalk talking to a group of people Kelly doesn't know. Tommy has an arm around Jack, but when he sees his father he stops, changes direction and goes to greet him. "Merry Christmas, Pop," he says.

Paddy's eyes light up. "Tommy. Merry Christmas to you." He nods to Kelly. "And to you, Miss Kelly."

"Oh, none of that," she says, losing patience with this stupid Man Code thing he's got going on with his own son. Tommy can do what he wants, but so can she. "We're family, we hug. Merry Christmas, Paddy." She embraces him warmly and briefly, and he returns the greeting.

"You _are _comin' for dinner tomorrow, right?" Tommy asks his father, who's gravely shaking hands with Jack and patting Martin on the shoulder.

"Wouldn't miss it," Paddy says. "Even if the food is worse than what I could manage on my own, and that's hardly possible. Can I bring anything?"

"Just your company," Kelly tells him. "Any time after four; we'll eat around six-thirty."

Paddy's group has been waiting for him, and he finally turns and says, "Folks, this is my son Tommy and his family." The phrase gives her a warm feeling, and it must affect Tommy the same way, because he looks down with that little smile he gets when he's shy. Paddy introduces Jenny, Bill, Luis, Derek and Patricia, all people about his age, and Kelly makes a guess that these are people he knows from AA. It wouldn't be polite to ask, of course, and it doesn't matter in any case. Paddy's friends, that's all she needs to know. She smiles and shakes hands, and then says that they really ought to be getting home, getting the children in bed, and a Merry Christmas to them all.

"Bye, Pop," Tommy says, and gives his father a short one-armed hug, surprising Kelly. He never initiates things with his father. He'll usually return a handshake, but not offer one first. Well. That's Christmas magic of the best kind, she thinks.

As soon as she gets home, she helps the boys get into pajamas. Tommy, having put away everyone's coats and hats and scarves, comes upstairs to make sure the boys are well-tucked into bed, kissing them goodnight. "Don't come get me before six o'clock," she warns them. "If you wake up early, you can read quietly in your room, but we are not going downstairs before sunrise, you get me?"

"Yes, Mommy," Jack says, and Martin's nearly asleep already. She doesn't worry – it's very late, and she figures that even with the excitement it will take sunlight peeking in through their windows to wake them up.

It's been a good day, a good evening – a really wonderful week, actually, and she's got a whole other week at home with her sweet husband before she goes back to a regular work schedule. She looks at him, leaning over to kiss Jack's head one more time before turning out the lamp, and wonders again how she ever got so lucky.

8 * 8 * 8 * 8 * 8

After the boys are tucked into bed, Kelly grabs her bag full of things to go into stockings and they start back down the stairs. It's so late, past 2 am, and Kelly keeps stifling yawns. "Don't look while I do yours," she orders, so he covers his eyes and peeks, suspicious that she's slipping something expensive into his stocking. She's not, though. It's little personal care things like toothpaste and a bag of sugar-free hard candies, and stuff like that. The boys have toothpaste and new toothbrushes too, plus Pez dispensers and gum and a few small toys.

"You done?" he asks, and when she says yes he comes over to hug her up close.

"We can do this tomorrow," she says, yawning.

"Nope. It's your present. C'mon, you big wuss, you have to stay up for it."

"_Wuss?_" she repeats, her eyes going narrow.

He can't help it, he can't keep his face stern. "Don't worry, I'll keep you awake." They're in the living room, where the tree is standing in its glory, the only light in the room. It has the old-fashioned big colored lights – Kelly calls them tacky, but he thinks she might secretly love them, because when they'd plugged in the lights this afternoon her smile was so beautiful. And if he's honest, he likes them too. This tree is like the ugly-ass artificial tree he'd seen every Christmas growing up in Pittsburgh, an el-cheapo deal Pop had bought in 1977 or some shit like that – only better. _Much_ better.

This is what you do, maybe, when your childhood goes to hell. You take the parts of the past you want to keep and you make them better.

He sets her on her feet on the rug near the tree, and pulls her down to sit on it with him. "Now," he says, "Merry Christmas, baby." He cups her face with his hands, looks into her eyes, and only then does he lean in to her lips.

The kissing is just as good as it's always been, all softness and heat. Their mouths fit together well, even though hers is smaller. More than that, though, it's the way she makes him feel so open. Like he might be the one making the moves, but it feels like they merge into one big organism, one whole person with two heartbeats, one whole with interlocking parts. They kiss for a long time, starting slow and gentle. He lets her show him when she's ready to go deeper.

She can't resist him, and he knows it. Her hand goes into his hair and she opens her mouth, strokes her tongue delicately across the inside of his upper lip – and now it is a mission to really know each other. After some undefined period of time, he notices the hitch in her breathing, the tiny moans in the back of her throat, and her fingers have found their way under the hem of his sweater, to touch his stomach. He trails his lips back to her ear, down her neck, kisses her everywhere he can reach without taking her clothes off. His own clothes are getting restrictive, but this is her gift, so he won't rush her.

He'll try not to, anyway. Her hands are up under his sweater now, touching his chest, and she's making those quiet sighing moans under her breath, so maybe she's ready now. He slips one finger under her sweater, feeling the soft skin there at her waist, and she moans out loud, says his name. So she is ready for this. He tugs it off her, as slowly as he can manage, and then her pants and socks, and goes back to kissing her collarbone, the tops of her beautiful breasts above her bra. "You too," she whispers, pulling at his sweater. He takes those off, kicking off his socks and letting her unbutton his dress pants. He can't restrain a growl of pleasure as her hands ghost over the front of his boxers. He _wants_. He can wait, the waiting makes it sweeter sometimes, but it seems like every nerve in his body is taut with anticipation. He kicks off the pants, too, and leans back over her, kissing the smooth skin of her stomach. "Tommy," she whispers again, her breath really ragged now, and pulls her bra straps down her shoulders.

"You wanna go upstairs?" he asks her, kissing her neck again.

"No," she whispers. "Here."

Here in front of the Christmas tree and the Nativity set on the coffee table, here where the boys will be opening their presents in the morning, here is where he will be making love to his wife tonight. The thought sends a rush of feeling through his chest, and then south, so that he's harder than ever inside his boxers.

He reaches under and unhooks her bra, pulling it off to reveal her breasts, full and rosy-tipped, her nipples tight and begging to be touched. He is not sure how long he spends there, kissing and sucking her nipples, but when her moans get louder he kisses his way down her belly, pulling off her satin panties. And when she is laid out like a feast before him on the rug, he can't shake off the tremble in his hands. Oh, he wants, he wants so bad. He trails one hand up her thigh to her center, and she is slick and ready. She gasps and writhes a little, says his name again, her hands reaching for him.

_Now now now_, his body says. _She's ready now, she'll feel so good... _

No, he needs to wait. This is still her gift. He can wait for her pleasure. He kneels, licks gently at that swollen bud and then more firmly, feeling her hands tightening in his hair and hearing her quiet moans. Wait, he tells himself. It doesn't take long before she's climaxing, and his cock is getting desperate. _No, wait,_ he tells it again. This is for her. He tastes her again, drinking down all her sweetness, and she keeps making her noises, and then suddenly her hand tugs at his hair, tugs his his head up.

"I'm gonna come again," she says, breathless. "I want you inside me when I do." She reaches for the waistband of his boxers.

"It's not gonna take me long," he warns her, because it won't. Then the boxers are gone and she's taking him in, hot and wet and snug,_ oh God _he's not going to last. "I love you," he says against her lips, holding still so he won't blow it too early, it's so good, it's so fucking good.

He kisses her through that first moment of being joined, thinking about how right this is. Being married. Being together, making love like this, it somehow has the same almost holy feeling as Mass, that sense that he's not alone, that he is connected and part of. That he _belongs_ – to Kelly, to his family, to the human race, to God. That love is this big ribbon tying them all together.

"I love you," she says back, and locks her legs around his back, rocking her hips under his, and the sweetness of it draws tears out of his eyes. "I love you," she says again, and again, as he starts to move. Her mouth tastes so good, and she feels so excellent wrapped around him, and all that need and ache in his chest makes every stroke like a kind of kissing. He holds on longer than he'd thought he would, unwilling to have it be over, but when her body locks down on him, squeezing him tight, he lets go too. He might even go to sleep for thirty seconds, after, because there's a moment when everything is warm and black and then Kelly laughing softly into his ear, stroking his back.

"Best. Christmas. Ever," she says.

Yeah. It is.


	13. Chapter 13: The Benefit of Experience

**FDTR: The Benefit of Experience**

**Set in early November, approximately 11 (almost 12) years after the events of The Long Road Home. Just to catch you up on the kids' ages: Jack is 20, at U Penn. Martin's a senior in high school, age 17. Mary Kate's just had her 10****th**** birthday; Ryan is not quite 8.**

"Wow, Daddy, that's you?" Mary Kate leans over the unframed photo on the kitchen table. "You look..." She pauses and bites her lower lip, which is interesting. Martin wonders whether she picked it up from watching Tommy, or whether it's genetic. "Young," she decides. "Really young."

Tommy has been doing some digging around in his old Marine Corps footlocker or _something_, because he just now came into the kitchen and plopped this 8x10 photo down on the table. Mom is doing something on the stove that requires her immediate attention (it smells great, whatever it is), and Martin has just now dragged himself into the house after wrestling practice. He's not a great wrestler, but he doesn't suck. Probably he doesn't suck because Tommy is good at giving him pointers, including the semi-discouraging advice that what worked for Tommy is probably not going to work for Martin, who is tall for someone at his weight and has a different body shape.

Oh well. It doesn't matter, he's only using wrestling to keep in shape between football and baseball seasons.

Martin steps over to the table and looks over his sister's shoulder at the photo of his stepfather. It must be Tommy's official graduation-from-boot-camp photo, because here he is in dress blues. He was way skinnier then… with cheekbones and jaw more angular than Martin's used to seeing. No scar in the eyebrow, either. MK's right: he looks really young.

"How old were you?" he asks Tommy, who is standing just inside the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.

"Eighteen." _So maybe a year older than me_, Martin thinks. And Tommy does look young in this photo, but also way older than Martin looks. It's in the eyes, an expression that says, "Life sucks and you just endure it."

Looking at Tommy now, though, Martin's starting to think more than ever that the plan he cooked up the other day, it might really be the right thing to do. He doesn't have to decide right now, but he might as well get Mom used to the idea. And it would be good to know what Tommy thinks, anyway. In fact… maybe he should talk to Tommy first. No, dinner should be a good time to discuss it – dinner is usually a pretty relaxed time.

Mom has finished up with the stove – yum, chicken Italian sausage with onions and peppers, and she's got the water boiling for mostaccioli, and there's homemade pasta sauce in its usual big pot on the back of the stove. "Let me see, then," she says, wiping her hands on the dishtowel and coming to look at the photo. She looks down at it and says nothing, which is not like her. Then she picks it up and stares hard, and Martin has to check her face twice, because her mouth has bent into the shape it makes when she's trying not to cry.

Women are _weird_. Well, either women in general are weird, or Mom is weird. Maybe it's just Mom.

"My God, look at you," she says, half whispering. "Proud of yourself, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well…" Tommy shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles off to the side. "I did think I looked pretty good in the dress blues."

"You did." Mom's mouth pinches up into the not-crying expression again before she smooths it away. "I have to finish dinner. You put that somewhere safe, so it doesn't get messed up, okay?"

"Sure. I'll stick it on top of the secretary desk in the dining room."

During dinner, Ryan shares everything he knows about koala bears, and that takes up the conversation so Martin can't talk about his own stuff. (On the positive side, now he knows that koalas can live for over twenty years, that the males are territorial during the breeding season, and that they are notoriously bad tempered, known to spit at people who come too close.)

Ryan has finally wound down about the time that the pasta and sausage is gone, and Mom brings a bowl of black grapes to the table. Maybe now, Martin decides. "So," he says, grabbing a clump of grapes. It's too big, so he splits it in half and gives part to Mary Kate. "I was in the guidance office at school earlier this week and I got to thinking about college, so I picked up a couple of brochures. I wanted to run something past you guys."

Mom and Tommy exchange glances. "I thought you were pretty set on Penn State," Mom says, mildly.

"Oh, I am. Definitely. Definitely going to college, that's why I took the magnet school classes, and Penn State has what I want. But…" He takes a big breath. "I was thinking of going ROTC." Tommy's hand stops in its trajectory, reaching for his decaf iced tea. Martin adds, quickly, "They have really good scholarships. It would pretty much pay for college."

He's been figuring that Mom would be the stubborn one with this plan. And she doesn't look happy. But it's Tommy that's the surprise: his face is grim, and he's got a death grip on his glass, and he's staring at Martin. Pissed off? You would not _believe _what kind of cold fury can live on Tommy's face when he's pissed off, and Martin gets a flash of what the military might actually be like, if there are people like Tommy in charge. There is an icy pause.

"Well, I'd need to hear some more of your plan," Mom says. "But if you don't mind, after supper when I've got this kitchen cleaned up." Martin watches her get up and start scooping leftovers into containers for the fridge. She's avoiding his gaze, so he knows she's avoiding this discussion, or at least postponing it. Martin shakes his head a little. He hadn't expected she'd be this chicken to talk about it.

"You come outside with me, Martin," Tommy says abruptly, finishing his tea. "Need a little help."

If Tommy "needs help," he's either trying to encourage somebody to learn a skill (this is how Martin learned how to weed flower beds, dig a hole for a tree, mow grass, run the weed eater, and various other skills involving dirt and sweat) or he's got something to say that might include what Jack calls "Marine language." Martin's betting on Marine Language, since it's almost dark out now.

"Sure, let me grab my shoes."

They put on their grubby sneakers and old jackets for outside work in the small mudroom just outside the kitchen, and Tommy holds the door open for him as he flips on the outside light. "Need to move that birdbath, cover it up for the winter. I noticed a crack in it the other day when I was policing up the garden. It's not heavy but it's bulky, and usually I wrestle it around by myself, but you ain't doin' anything right now."

Sure. Gotta move the birdbath _now_. Of _course_. Martin braces for incoming.

(The birdbath itself was a sort-of joke gift from Jack and Martin to Tommy not long ago, after five years running of Christmas Eve Midnight Mass at the church where Tommy grew up. The year Martin was ten, Tommy had stopped him in the Home Depot parking lot once, when they'd gone there to choose fresh paint for the kitchen, as Mom's Christmas present. He'd pointed to a row of concrete birdbaths and said, "Now_ that_ is a birdbath. Learn the difference between that and the holy water font. You're smart enough." That had been all, but for Tommy's birthday Jack had insisted Tommy needed one. And funnily enough, Tommy seems to have enjoyed the thing – he keeps it full of water and the feeder near it full of birdseed.)

They go out to stand on either side of the birdbath, and just as Martin's about to ask the best way to pick up the thing and move it, Tommy starts talking. "What's this crap about you goin' in the service? You thinkin' about which one?"

Martin shifts gears. "Um, I'm not sure. I was thinking maybe Air Force because the specialty I want to get into is aeronautical engineering. Design planes, maybe. But the Navy has those cool fighter jets so maybe that, I don't know. But my other possibility would be electrical engineering, and you can do pretty much anything with EE. Systems, you know – communications and signals and stuff."

Tommy's shoulders have relaxed just a tad. "So… not focusing on servin' in the field, right?"

"No, I'm pretty serious about engineering. I guess they used some engineers out in the field, though? When you were in the Corps?"

"Yeah, some. Ran into a couple now and then."

"So I should think about the Corps maybe? Or the Army Corps of Engineers, they're a pretty good bet career-wise that I'd at least be doing something cool. And we're not at war now. What do you think?"

"We weren't at war when I enlisted, either," Tommy says. "That has a way of changing." But he doesn't address the question directly.

It's weird how much this matters to Martin. He and Jack have always hung on to the fact that Mike Porter was their dad, even through Dad's jail sentence and his probation at the halfway house, even through Dad's subsequent relapse into alcoholism and his fatal single-car accident when Martin was 11 and Jack 14. Even through all that, they've had a pact never to forget their dad, the way he was before his demons dragged him down.

Dad was Dad, and Tommy is Tommy. But he's done all the dad things, all the good ones, and the truth is that Tommy's opinion matters a whole heck of a lot to Martin.

"Why you wanna do that?"

Martin shrugs. Lots of reasons: college tuition. Pride in his stepfather and step-grandfather, and in his Navy uncle. In the Virginia grandfather he never met. Pride in his own father, who served in Afghanistan with the US Army. Post-college, post-service career opportunities. A desire to serve his country. "It seemed like a thing I could do. Maybe _should_ do, because not a lot of guys my age are going to give up their time to do it. I mean, that's why they have those incentives, because most people aren't going to think about serving."

Tommy lifts his face a little – it's still faintly strange to be taller than Tommy, but it's one of the things Martin is secretly proud of – and says flatly, "Look. I don't want you anywhere _near _a battlefield. Ever. It would kill your mama." He takes a beat and then adds, "And it would kill me too if anything happened to you. I couldn't stand it."

Martin blinks.

"Because I'd know, see? I'd know what you went through. In detail. And I'd be goin' through it again too."

Martin can't talk for a minute. Because he knows Tommy had a bad war. He still has flashbacks occasionally. But there is a lot to be dealt with here. "You mean… you don't think I could hack it? You're that much tougher than me?"

Tommy snorts through his nose, but a tiny smile quirks up the side of his mouth. "You ain't as tough as me, no. You ain't had to be. But Martin – that's a good thing. Getting to be tough is hard on a guy." He sighs. "Look. Sometimes they send the engineers out to a forward area, but those guys are pretty valuable. They're usually not out there getting' shot at and bombed the way the grunts are. Come out to look at the situation sometimes, but not day-in day-out."

Martin's not thrilled about going to war. He thinks he could do it, though. "So you're saying don't do it?"

Tommy rubs his nose. It's a sure sign he's not comfortable, but he's not angry either. "ROTC's a good program. But you don't have to pay for college, man. Your mom and me, we gotcha covered. You can work summers the way Jack does."

"I know." And they're dropping huge bills for Jack's college at U Penn, too. Not to mention that Jack wants to go to med school, so there will be that as well. Martin wants to be less of a financial burden. "But if I want to do it? What do you say then?"

"I dunno." Tommy rubs his nose again. "It's just – you really wanna be an engineer, right? You wanna go in, do your requirement, and get out and into civilian life?"

"That was the plan. Lot of big companies like Lockheed-Martin take people with experience in the military, the guidance counselor says. Other companies too. Like I said, EEs are pretty flexible."

Tommy nods. "Okay. Then go AFROTC. That's the place for you."

Did Martin hear that right? Tommy has always had a grudging respect for Army guys individually, even if he has nothing good to say about the Army in general. And the Navy and Marines have a strange kind of envious partnership going. But the Air Force? Referred to either as the Chair Force or the Air Farce, belittled, made fun of, called wimps (and worse)… Tommy's had very little good to say about it ever.

He must look surprised, because Tommy clarifies it without Martin having to ask. "Lowest mortality rates of any service except the Coast Guard. Don't get me wrong, some of those guys are out there in the front. Pilots in particular. But the engineers?" He shakes his head. "Career opportunities, man. I want you comin' home and gettin' on with your life after. I'm serious. No bullshit. You got your mind set on ROTC, you go _Chair._ That's my advice. Go anywhere near the Army and I'll kick your ass."

"You really don't think Army Corps of Engineers would be a good place for me?"

Tommy looks straight at him again. "Chair Force. I want you comin' _home_. It's not a guarantee, mind you, but your chances are better. And if you wanna design shi – stuff, the Air Force is the place. Navy has a lotta planes, but AF is far deeper into R&D because their needs are more diverse. And if you're doin' R&D, they ain't gonna send you out to get shot at, get me?"

Martin nods. "So you think I can do it?" He's not aware that he's holding his breath until Tommy answers him.

His stepfather looks him in the eye and says, "Yeah. Yeah, you can. I'll run the pants off you all spring and summer, condition you into the ground, and you'll fly through the PT stuff. You're in good shape now, but you been playin' football. You need to be leaner for ROTC. And you gotta get in the habit of keepin' your stuff neat." And then he grins. "You'll get it. I didn't get it either until boot camp. Hey, let's actually move this damn birdbath before your mama smells a rat and comes out here to chew my ass."

They heave the heavy concrete thing up and in through the mudroom, into the corner of the sun porch where it will sit until the weather gets consistently above freezing again. Martin's got another question. "Do you miss it?"

"The Corps?" There's a pause while Tommy takes off his gloves. "Yeah. Wouldn't go back now, at my age, but there was a time I woulda. Even with the PTSD, I'da wanted to go back. Just didn't get the chance."

"Well, you did look good in the dress blues," Martin tells him. "Best uniforms ever, by the way."

"Small compensation for gettin' our asses shot to hell the most," Tommy says drily. "But you're right. Best uniforms ever."

Mom is in the kitchen, sitting at the table looking at that photo of Tommy, and she's been crying. Tommy goes right to her, takes the photo out of her hand and leans in to look at her face. She sniffles, wiping at her eyes. "Stop it. I can cry over you if I want."

He kisses her nose, then sits down and hauls her out of her chair onto his lap. "Fine, baby. I'm here, I'm whole, I'm yours. But you go ahead and cry if you want. God knows nobody else cried over me then." The words might sound cold, but not the way Tommy says them. Mom puts her arms around him and leans into his shoulder, and he pats her back. To Martin he says, "You got homework?"

"Calculus." And if Martin doesn't get it on it soon, he'll be up until midnight. His alarm goes off at 5:45 so he can make it to magnet school classes at 7am. He'd better get a move on.

"I'll catch your mom up and we'll all talk tomorrow," Tommy says, and Mom picks her head up. She starts to say something, but Tommy hushes her. "Ssh, baby, he's got math to do. You an' me, we'll talk. Don't Ryan have to go to bed soon?"

Martin doesn't hear the rest; he's on his way up the stairs. He's got to get this differential-equations stuff down, and then _maybe_ there will be time to call Ann-Kelly before she has to go to bed too.

* * *

"So what's this all about?" he asks her once Martin's out of earshot. "Is this just you wantin' to mother teenage me, or are you already worried about lettin' your second baby out into the big world?"

"Not funny," she says into his shoulder. "And yeah. It's both."

"Didn't say it was funny."

"Oh, you _break my heart_ in that photo," she says. "So proud. And so lonely. Just a kid, but you got the weight of the world on your shoulders there."

"Yeah, it wasn't exactly a good time for me. I mean, I was doin' okay – I don't say boot camp was a piece a' cake, but for me it wasn't that bad. And I figured I was gonna do good in the Corps. But Mom died six months before that, and I had nobody. Didn't even know Manny then." He doesn't much like thinking about those days. "Baby. Baby, look at me."

She sits up, leans back so she can see. Puts her hand on his cheek. _God, she's so sweet. I'm so lucky._

"Would we love each other so much if we hadn't been through hell?" That's the payoff, way he figures it. If he'd had a nice quiet boring life, growing up in a perfectly normal happy home, would he appreciate what he has now? Would every single day feel like winning the lottery?

"You might have a point," she concedes. "I would still love you. But maybe not this much, this crazy much."

"Exactly. Now kiss me. And stop worryin' about Martin, he's gonna be fine." He explains about Martin's plans, Martin's career opportunities. "He's like Jack… in his own way. He just wants to give back." She has questions, of course, and they're not stupid ones. But eventually she settles down and is thinking about it logically. She even agrees that the Air Force might be a good place for Martin, if he can learn how to keep his stuff organized.

"He's a good kid, you know."

"I think you had something to do with that too," she tells him. Then she's hopping off his lap to go pop Ryan into his bath, and Tommy's got a few things to do as well.

They meet back in their bedroom, eventually, with all three kids in bed. There is kissing, and then there is sex, which they do most nights anyway unless somebody is sick. There's an extra sweetness to it tonight – probably Kelly trying to make up to him, the best she knows how, for the loneliness of an eighteen-year-old Marine, and him trying his very best to catch all the love she's dishing out. It's good. Honestly, these days the cuddling is almost as important to him as the sex.

Almost. His dick has a definite opinion on that one.

It is probably not surprising that as he drifts to sleep with his arm around his wife he's thinking of the desert, of a handful of Chair Force guys coming off the FOB to go on mission with his platoon. It had been uneventful for the most part, the only drama involved in it the drama of keeping your face straight when some idiot who's never been outside the wire pokes at your weapon and says shit like, "What's that on your rifle, lasers? What do you use them for?" instead of whupping the idiot's ass. The Scorpion Warriors had shown these guys around, and taken them on mission. Every single one of them had been clueless about real-life duty. Sure, they'd been deployed for four months already, two-thirds of the way through their deployment, but none of them had so much as been off the forward base. He and Fleischman had exchanged _these assholes don't even know how to aim a weapon_ looks, and then moved out, the Air Farce dudes still asking stupid questions like, "Why's your undershirt made out of fire retardant material?" (Because IEDs _burn,_ you fuckhead.)

At some point in the night he begins to dream: Iraq. Hot. Sandy. Fucking brutal. They're in the Humvees, taking the Chair Force guys with them on patrol; he's in one with Manny and a bunch of guys and Fleischman's in the other with Lt. Ferguson and the other half of the platoon. There's radio traffic when somebody in Fleischman's vehicle sees a disturbance in the dirt by the road, but it turns out to be nothing. No IED in that hole, anyway. They make it back to base from patrol, and one of the clueless AF assholes turns to Tommy and says, "Whoa. Thank God we got back in one piece. I don't know how you guys do this every day, never knowing whether the terrorists are going to show up or not."

Tommy, hot and tired and sick of babysitting these ignorant bastards, just looks at the guy with disgust. _Fuckers sit on their asses and complain all day about the food, and then you get 'em off the FOB and they think they're hot shit_. "Get the hell outta my Humvee." And the AF guy takes one alarmed look at Tommy's face and gets the hell out.

Manny, hanging back to make sure everything is clear in the vehicle, says, "Ooooh, Scorpio, you in a bad mood today."

Faw says, mock-solemnly, "Dude needs to relax."

"No, 'mano needs to get laid," Manny clarifies, laughing, as they all climb out of the Humvee.

Ferguson walks over in time to catch the last part. "Who, Conlon? Yeah, we need to let him loose on some of them ugly broads at the FOB, they'll think they've gone to girl heaven." He pitches his voice high to pretend-quote a girl. "Oooh, Staff Sergeant, I love your manly tattoos!"

"Lieutenant," Tommy protests. His ears are burning hot.

"Just wait till they see his _pinga_," Manny says, starting to walk toward quarters with the guys, turning around to look back at Tommy, who's standing open-mouthed near the Humvee, pissed off and embarrassed and (inexplicably) starting to get a hard-on. "They definitely be in heaven then." He winks at Tommy.

And then everything explodes and he goes deaf, half-blind, feeling like he's been punched by a giant hand. There are bits of concrete and metal and bodies flying in the air, and he's still alive but he can't help, there's nobody to help because they are all just pieces… the Humvee must have shielded him… how is he still alive? He looks down and sees his own body covered in blood from chest to boots, and he can't stand up anymore, his legs won't work, and just before his brain shuts off he thinks, _Fuck, I never did get laid in Iraq…_

… and he wakes, gasping. It's dark but he can't smell blood, this must be a safe place. As he starts to get more oxygen in he can stop gasping, and now he smells something his brain labels _woman._ There's a clock across the room, 3:37 am, and his right side is warmer than his left so he rolls into the warmth. Now he can take in the sound of a soft voice saying, "Baby, it's okay. It's okay, you're safe, you're at home. I'm here. You're fine. It's okay, Tommy."

_Kelly. Thank you, God._

He can't talk yet, but he can suck in another lungful of sweet-smelling air and be glad he's not dead. _Manny's dead. And the guys._

"Tommy," she's saying, but he cuts her off, kissing her hard and yanking at the oversized tee she's wearing. He needs her. Bad. She picks up on it pretty quick – well, it would be tough for her not to, given where his hand is at the moment.

"Please," he mutters, the only word he can manage.

She says, "Yes, baby. I won't break." And she's pulling him on top of her, opening her legs. _Oh God she's tight_, it's almost painful but once he's in she's slick enough. He taps her hard, setting up the fast rhythm that will bring him off quickest because he's not capable of anything else now, he just needs it, needs the release. It doesn't take long, but the urgency makes every stroke feel so damn good, and spilling inside her is an immense relief.

_I'm not dead._

He has no idea he's said that until she says something back to him. "No, baby, you're definitely alive. I love you so much."

"Love you too," he mumbles, and the dark closes over his head again so he can sleep.

He's up again two hours later, having woken himself when he saw Manny in his dream again. He gets up, dresses for a normal day at the gym without waking Kelly. He kisses her hair once and goes out of the room, downstairs to the kitchen. Martin should be up now.

He is. He's eating a whole-wheat bagel with scrambled eggs and some of the grapes from last night, and he's awake if not exactly happy about it. "Morning," he says to Tommy.

"Hey," Tommy responds, and steals a grape.

"Are you okay?" Martin asks. He's not usually this perceptive – Jack's the one who notices people's moods – and Tommy figures his rough night must show on his face.

"Bad dreams."

"Oh. 'Cause we were talking about the Corps last night?" Martin takes another enormous bite of the bagel.

"Probably. I'm okay, though." Eggs would be good. He rinses out the pan Martin used and puts it back on the stove to preheat. "Talked to your mom some last night. She's not exactly happy about it, but I think she'll be okay. She just doesn't want you to have to fight."

Martin finishes his bite. "I can see why." He chomps a grape. "I guess… look, I'm sorry I brought all that stuff back into your mind. I just wanted…" he shrugs, looking uncomfortable.

"No, you did the right thing to talk to me about it. Let's be honest, I got experience you need the benefit of. Not your fault my subconscious is still working shit out." He cracks two eggs into a bowl and adds some liquid from the Egg Whites Only carton in the fridge. "I'm honored you asked me," he confesses to Martin, while he's whipping the eggs with a fork.

"It occurred to me last night," Martin says, drinking juice, "that I've never thanked you for serving. So I'll do it now: thank you."

He's a good kid. He's his mother's kid for sure. Tommy looks at him, seeing Kelly in his earnest face. "You know… you're not my son. But you're my boy, Martin. That ain't gonna change. I'll claim ya. Even in the Air Farce."

Martin smiles his mother's smile at Tommy and drains his juice glass. "Thanks." He gets up and puts his dishes in the dishwasher, then gives Tommy a side hug. "I'll claim you back."

And damn if that don't feel pretty good.

**A/N: Most of the good stuff in Tommy's memories/dream of Iraq here came straight out of a blog called "Kaboom: A Soldier's War Journal," from a post called "Messing with the chAir Force," dated 2008. I understand the guy who wrote it is now out of the Army and has a book based on his blog. Props to Lt. Matt Gallagher, and thanks for sharing.**


	14. Ch 14: Party Girl, Rosie in Nutcracker

**FDTR: Party Girl (Rosie Dances in The Nutcracker)**

**Set in December approximately 8 years after Kelly and Tommy are married. My thanks (and apologies) to my girl Wynter S Komen, for being my dance guru and letting me steal a great phrase from her one-shot "Peace and Joy in the Land of Gods and Monsters." Anything I've gotten wrong is my own fault. This is mostly fluff, with a little lemon zest on top. Enjoy!**

"When does it _starrrrrt_?" Ryan whines at his mother, patting at her arm.

"Soon, honey. About fifteen minutes."

"That's too long," he says, and flops back into the velveteen theater seat. He's got his shirt collar half-in and half-out of his red sweater, the one that used to be Martin's, and Tommy stifles a smile. He ought to take a picture, but Jack's got the camera now, with the zoom lens on it so he can get pictures of the stage.

Kelly exchanges a glance with Tommy over their youngest child's head. "It's not that long," she says. "You remember this story, right? From the storybook."

"With all the candy and stuff," he says. "Do we get candy?"

Kelly does not roll her eyes. "I don't think so. However, if you behave yourself, I might be able to find some candy in my purse at intermission. And then there are snacks at the party afterward." There's going to be a party for the… dancers? Cast members? Tommy's not sure what to call them. This is a production of The Nutcracker involving two universities and multiple local dance studios, and his niece Rosie's in it, which is why the entire family is here on a Sunday afternoon in December. Six-year-old Mary Kate is enthralled with everything, from the velveteen seats to the miniature lights strung up in various places around the auditorium to her very own program. Brendan and Tess' youngest, Patrick, age 7, is sitting corralled between his parents the way Ryan is between him and Kelly. Earlier, the two boys were running, shooting each other with their fingers and yelling with excitement.

Which is generally fine with Tommy; boys just do that. But this is a performance and Ryan needs to settle down and not be playing loudly with his cousin during it. Later they can go back to _bang-you're-dead, no-I'm-not-I-got-you-first_. Tommy idly wonders what boys played before the invention of gunpowder. Bows and arrows? Swords? Rocks? As long as there have been little boys, they've been play-fighting.

Actually, there weren't enough seats in the same row for everyone, in this section of the balcony that's closest to the stage, so he and Brendan, Kelly and Tess, and the two youngest boys are in this row, and everyone else is in the row just in front: sixteen-year-old Emily pointing at things in the program with six-year-old Mary Kate, Pop in the middle, turning his head to catch their conversation and then turning to his other side to catch Martin and Jack's discussion of the most recent Steelers-Eagles game. Ten years ago, Tommy would never ever have guessed at how much Pop would enjoy being a grandfather.

Kelly turns to Tess and says, "Is Rosie going to be _en pointe_ for this? She was so excited about that in the fall."

Tess shakes her head. "No, she won't be dancing any of those roles yet, she doesn't have the experience. She's a little late starting with it, but her dance school is affiliated with University of the Arts, and they take preparedness very seriously. They test all the girls who have the general skills to go on to pointe – they have this physiologist who has ballet background look at everybody's feet to make sure they're ready for the stress of the toe shoes, you know?" Kelly nods. "And she said Rosie's tendons and ligaments were too tight and the foot muscles weren't strong enough, she would probably injure if she started too soon. So Rosie's been doing all those exercises to strengthen her feet and ankles, and she's capable of pointe now but isn't confident enough with it for a performance yet."

"Ah. Got it," Kelly says. She reaches down to her tote purse and pulls out a small canvas bag with some of Ryan's things in it. She shows it to him. "Okay, if you need something to do it's in here: books, coloring books and crayons, stuff like that. But when the curtain goes up you have to be quiet, you hear me? I think it will be fun – oh, hey, look, the orchestra is coming in! See all the violins?"

From what Kelly was saying earlier, Tommy has gathered that it's unusual for a Nutcracker performance to involve live musicians without the tickets costing an arm and a leg, but apparently these are university and local high school students and the performance is either part of their class activity or volunteer. Kelly starts talking to Patrick and Ryan about the first time she ever saw The Nutcracker, at the civic center in Roanoke, and how she couldn't stop looking at the musicians until the house lights went off and the curtain went up.

"How do they see down there with the lights off?" Patrick wants to know.

"They have lights clipped onto their music stands. See? They're turning them on now and tuning up." There is a discordant noise coming out of the orchestra pit now as people are just playing stuff separately, noodling around.

"I just wish it would _start_," Ryan says again. He's pretty visually-oriented, like his father. Tommy smooths his son's hair down.

Jack, hearing his half-brother whining, turns around in his seat and smiles. "I know, buddy. But you have to look really hard to find Rosie, okay? Tell Dad when you see her."

"Okay." Ryan gets back up on his knees in the seat and stage whispers to his cousin, across both their mothers. "Hey Patrick! Hey Patrick! Patrick!" When Patrick pokes his head forward, Ryan waves.

"Shhh!" Tess says, and the lights dim.

Tommy's only seen bits of this on TV, and it's pretty boring on a screen. Here, though, it's interesting. From reading Mary Kate's Nutcracker storybook to the kids, he already knows what's supposed to happen, but it's kind of fun to watch the dancers show what they're doing with exaggerated, formal gestures. That kind of thing looks stupid up close, but from this distance he's starting to get it. _This_ is why, if you want someone's attention at two klicks, you wave your arms wildly; the big gestures show but the small ones, the natural ones, wouldn't.

On stage, the Christmas party starts, and there among the other children at the party is Rosie, in a flouncy pale blue dress and those lacy pants things that stick out from under the dress. Her hair is in beautiful yellow ringlets, held back by a blue ribbon bow, and more than anything she looks like one of those old-fashioned china dolls, grown up to life size. Ryan pokes him. "Dad! Dad, there's Rosie! Look!" Ryan's excited whisper is matched by his sister's, one row ahead. Mary Kate is pointing, her pretty curls bobbing as she whispers to Emily.

Ryan does not, may miracles never cease, get bored. He's enthralled by the boys at the party pretending to shoot each other, by the Christmas tree getting big, and by the ballerinas whirling across the stage like snowflakes. He even asks Kelly, "How come all the snow girls have white hair?" so Tommy knows he's really paying attention. Ryan has much better attention span at four than Tommy had at seven (Patrick's age).

And not long ago, Patrick whispered loudly, "Mom! Who's the guy in the bat cape again? Why is he there?" It made Pop's shoulders shake with laughter.

After the snowflake girls finish, the curtain falls on Act I and the lights come up, dim at first and then brighter. "Okay, who needs a bathroom break?" Pop asks them all, and winds up taking the littler boys and Martin, while Tess takes Mary Kate. Jack and Emily are looking at the photos he was able to take without the flash. Tommy looks again at the enormous bouquet Jack had insisted on bringing for Rosie; it's sitting in his seat while he and Emily stand with their heads close together.

Jack really had been adamant about bringing Rosie this bouquet. It's a monstrosity of a thing, too, a ridiculously expensive bundle of stems four inches thick, all in bright colors: red roses, bright pink ones, pink lilies, purple flowers Tommy doesn't know the name of, yellow chrysanthemums, with daisies and baby's breath and ferns for filler. Kelly's forehead had scrunched up when Jack had brought it out of the florist shop into the car, after picking up the order he'd placed online. "It's… a little bright, don't you think?"

"Yes," sixteen-year-old Jack said. "If I were picking one out for Emily or Mary Kate it would be soft pink. But it's for Rosie, and she likes bright colors."

"How _much _was that thing?" Tommy had asked him, and winced at the figure Jack mentioned.

"I'm chipping in half," Jack had said, chin up. "I took the amount you said you wanted to spend and doubled it when I made the order. I don't want her to feel left out when the dancers get bouquets. She needs to feel special, too." Tommy had shrugged and let it go. If Jack wants to spend his birthday and yard-mowing money on his cousin, he's entitled. It's not like he's blowing it on video games and crack.

Brendan's holding Rosie's bouquet from him and Tess, this one in shades of red and white. Tess knows her daughter: Rosie's never been a Pink Girl the way Mary Kate has. At one point, when she was maybe three, Tommy remembers doing laundry and noticing that almost every single piece of MK's clothing was some shade of pink. Tommy snickers a little to himself, thinking of Rosie in that baby blue dress with flounces and lace. "Hey Bren, what has Rosie had to say about her costume?" He'd bet the ranch she's been whining about it.

Brendan laughs. "Oh, that Victorian dress with the pantaloons? She's complained every day since she got fitted." Tommy nods. "She _hates _it. She's probably backstage right now hanging it up and thanking God there's only one more performance tomorrow. She likes the one she's wearing for Act 2 much better."

"Which role is it?" Kelly asks, fishing in Mary Kate's seat for her program. "I haven't even seen this… aww, look, there's her name, under 'Party Girls.' Oh, and there she is – in the Chinese 'Tea' thing in Act 2." She grins at Brendan. "Of course she'd like that costume better. I'll bet it's not pastel."

Brendan nods, grinning back. "Tommy, you bored sick?"

"Nope." He's not. The dancers are clearly in great shape, and it must take tons of time to be able to do some of the incredible jumps and spins and stuff that it takes. He's still not real comfortable with the way you can see all the guys' junk in those tights, but he has to admit they can do things he could never do in a million years. Rosie goes to ballet class three times a week, and she's just twelve. Imagine being 25 and spending all your time dancing – it's a commitment as serious as any training he's ever done, at least outside the Corps. What impresses him most, maybe, is the coordination it takes to go dancing and leaping across the stage and not crash into the other fifteen people who are doing the same thing. Must take a lot of practice.

Not to mention that eight years of hanging around Kelly and he's starting to have an appreciation for music he never had before. This is pretty cool – the music for the little boys fighting sounds like that, the music for the mice sounds like mice. The snowflakes music _sounds _like wind spinning the snowflakes around. And Kelly was right, you can see all the violin bows moving at the same time, down in the orchestra pit. Which is also pretty cool.

Despite the way some of those man dancers are costumed. "I mean, I'm still not particularly keen on seeing guys' balls outlined in nylon right in my face, but hey. They're athletes. And artists. If they can handle hangin' it out there, I can handle ignoring it."

Brendan bursts out laughing. "I know whatcha mean. I had a hard time gettin' used to it, too. But I see the little guys in Rosie's classes and they're just as serious as she is. More serious, maybe, 'cause they gotta put up with the crap they get from other kids to do it."

Tommy nods. "Yeah, but it's good. I'm enjoying it." He sits back down in Ryan's seat, leans over and kisses his wife on the cheek. "I like that dress," he whispers in her ear. "And the shoes. Seems like I've seen those before."

"Well," she says, and her cheek goes pink before she flirts her eyes up at him. "You liked 'em last time you saw 'em too."

She's wearing her wedding dress. It looks a little different. Simpler – she's taken some of the lace off it or something, so it's just the dark cream fabric with the texture. She's got a short, dark blue velvet jacket on, too. But her cleavage looks the same peeking out of the top, and those _shoes…_ he's got great memories of those shoes. "I like what's inside 'em better," he whispers. "Especially, um, when it's not wearin' panties."

The hint of a dimple appears in the cheek closest to him. "Sorry to disappoint you this evening, Mr. Conlon."

"The night's young." He kisses her ear, just above that little pearl earring. She shivers. "Wanna leave the shoes on again? Like our wedding night?"

This time she turns to look at him full-on. "Maybe. Think you can handle me more than once?" she asks, soft enough that only he can hear her.

Their wedding night, he'd been in such a hurry to get her undressed that he hadn't let her stop to unfasten the ankle straps on those ridiculously sexy high heels; he'd just settled his face in right between her legs and taken his damn time, and it was only when she'd already come twice and started begging nonstop that he'd gotten up on his knees and pressed his cock all the way inside her, let her carry him all the way home with her.

And that had only been the_ first_ time that night, the first of four leisurely but passionate lovemaking sessions. They'd barely slept, preferring kisses to rest. Preferring the waking dreams to the sleeping ones. So good. Remembering it now, and eying the tops of her lovely breasts, he feels himself stir below the waist. _No, not now. Family around. Later._ He and Kelly have a hotel room to themselves for tonight, and he plans to make good use of it.

"You know what?" he whispers into her ear again. "I loved you then, but I love you more now. I do." He's not saying it just to get laid later, though it might have that effect anyway. No, that's true. He loves her more. And he still wants to fuck her brains out, too.

She puts her hand on his cheek and lifts her mouth to his, and they share a tender kiss that just makes him want another sixty thousand kisses from her. "I love you more now too," she whispers back. Over her shoulder, there's Brendan looking at them with a kind of amused happiness, like they're probably embarrassing people but Brendan's happy for them all the same. He kisses Kelly's forehead for good measure and settles himself for proper behavior.

About then, Pop comes back with Patrick, Ryan and Martin. "Boy, don't Rosie look like a little doll in that blue dress?" Pop says to Brendan, who smiles all over his face. Brendan loves Emily, and they're somewhat alike – they think before they speak, behave themselves, are responsible and reliable. But Rosie's Brendan's babygirl, the one they almost lost when she was born with a heart condition, and she radiates _happy_ the same way butterflies do. Thank God that surgery worked, because you can't not love Rosie.

"I was just thinkin' that too," Tommy tells Pop. "Hey, Ryan Man, you wanna come back here with me or you wanna sit with Grandpop?" Ryan squinches up his face, thinking, so Tommy clarifies the deal for him. "Now listen, before you decide, you can't move once you're situated. You gotta stay where you are, you hear me? You can't be crawlin' back and forth 'tween my lap and Grandpop's."

"Oh, now, he can sit with me," Pop says, ruffling Ryan's hair. "He's my boy. And you too, Patrick, you're both my boys. But I only got one lap, you know."

_No, no, this is good,_ Tommy tells himself. _Even though Pop couldn't do this for me and Brendan… no, it's really good that Pop can be sweet to his grandkids._

Kelly's hand is suddenly warm on his back; he must be broadcasting his discomfort somehow. And maybe Ryan picks up on it, because he decides, "Wanna sit with _you_, Daddy."

"I'll sit with Grandpop," Patrick says. "I can show him where Rosie is."

"Well, that sounds like a good plan," Pop says, and ruffles Patrick's hair this time.

Just before the lights go dim, Tess and Mary Kate come back in, pink-cheeked and hurrying. Mary Kate is thrilled. "Daddy! There's a ballerina out in the lobby! But it took too long in the bathroom so we couldn't stop to say hello."

"Lines for the ladies' room in a public venue are always insane," Tess agrees, smoothing her niece's hair and kissing her daughter on the cheek. Emily takes charge of Mary Kate again, getting her comfortable in her seat and handing her the program, settling her dark green velvet-and-taffeta dress so it won't wrinkle.

Tommy puts Ryan on the end seat near the exit so he can go on sitting next to Kelly. He's not going to be, well, naughty… but if he's sitting next to her he can hold her hand, touch the soft skin of her wrist, whisper in her ear. Maybe he can slip a finger or two under that skirt… no. No, Tess will notice. Can't do that.

The next time Rosie's on stage, she's wearing what looks like satin pajamas in red and yellow, with black shoes, and she's wearing a black queue wig under the weird little puffy hat. She and five other girl dancers do a cool little dance full of leaps and quirky movements, and she's _really good._ There's lots of whispering and pointing going on in these two little rows, and Jack takes lots of pictures, and Brendan kisses Tess on the side of the head and does a discreet little fist pump. Rosie Conlon's certainly got her fan club. He hears Tess whisper to Kelly, "Thank God they had those wigs! I mean, have you ever seen a Chinese person with hair like Rosie's blonde mop? And honestly, it is such a humongous pain in the rear to get her hair into a sleek chignon anyway. All the little curly bits stick out, unless I can put it up wet and hairspray-bomb the heck out of it."

Kelly laughs, patting Tess on the arm. "She did great, proud mama."

Ryan conks out at some point during the Waltz of the Flowers, his head listing over onto his father's arm. Tommy looks down to see that his son has curled himself into a little ball in the seat, arms around himself and his mouth open. He kisses Ryan's head, shaking his own, and then tilts it over to rest it on his wife's head. He actually manages to kind of get into the big pas de deux (it sounds like Pah de Duh), because those two dancers are amazing, and the music is beautiful, and it makes him think of other things that are beautiful… like Kelly. Naked. Except for those incredible fuck-me shoes. _Stop it, you pervert, you're in public. At Rosie's ballet. _He manages not to lick Kelly's ear and say something really raunchy in Spanish. _Yet._ It can wait.

For the big finale, all the dancers come out to dance together and wave Clara goodbye, and there's Rosie again, looking adorable and so comfortable on stage. Rosie has never minded the attention. Brendan leans forward and taps Jack on the shoulder, and they sidle out through the row and go out to deliver their bouquets to the stage. There is thunderous applause as the music comes to an end, and each group of performers comes forward on the stage to take their bows. Rosie looks overwhelmed to receive not one bouquet, but two, and especially such a big one. She blows kisses to her dad and to Jack and then another one to the general area where her family is sitting, and then she's rejoining the rest of the "Chinese" dancers, with such a big smile that you can see it from up here in the balcony.

It takes forever to get out of the auditorium and over to the university building where the reception will be, and Ryan is cranky because the lights woke him up - it's not that late, but it is well past his bedtime. It's past Mary Kate's too, and she's yawning, but still so excited that she's skipping along the sidewalk, trying little dance steps of her own. They go right in, with their invitations, and get cups of punch and little cake things and chocolate-covered strawberries. They're talking to some of the other dancers' parents when the dancers finally come in, still wearing stage makeup but changed out of their costumes. Mary Kate, coming through the door in the middle of a clump of girls her age, yakking her head off, has her cloud of hair up in a bun and is wearing a loose red top and jeans, but also ballet shoes. She's carrying a green duffel bag crammed with stuff as well as her bouquets. She sees her father, squeals, and makes a beeline for Brendan. "Daddy!" she exclaims, waving her free hand.

"Hey, Rosie-girl," he says warmly, and hugs her. "Hey, don't get that stuff on my shirt, it's a pain to get out."

"I know," she says apologetically. "I couldn't get all of it off in the dressing room, I figured I'd just wait until I got home." _Well, that, and it makes your eyes stand out_, Tommy thinks, smiling at her.

Rosie passes around hugs to everybody except Ryan, who is still cranky and refusing all forms of comfort, including beverages and snacks. When she gets to Jack, she practically throws herself at his chest. "Jack! It was so awesome that you gave me those flowers! All the girls think you're my boyfriend."

Jack turns bright red. "They were from all of us. We just wanted you to know how good we think you are."

"Do you think so?" Rosie turns red too, with pleasure. Her face is practically split with her grin. "Next year maybe I can be one of the Snowflakes. If I refine my pointe – I can do it pretty well now, but I need to practice more."

Jack has been hugging her all this time, but finally he pats her on the back and lets her go. From there the conversation gets more general, and some of Rosie's friends come over to say hello and eat cookies and fruit. There's a lot of chat from the dancers about who messed up what part, and reassurance from the families that nobody noticed the mistakes, and a feeling of pride and satisfaction in the air. There's a tallish dark-haired girl, older than Rosie, who is flirting with Jack, and Jack flirts back, saying complimentary things to her and offering to bring her things from the food table.

The girl, Lena, says she couldn't possibly eat any more, she'll gain too much weight and be unable to do her pirouettes. Then she bats her lashes as Jack says heroically that he's sure she lives on cotton candy and air, she looks so light. _Man._ Where did Jack get so much confidence with girls? It's funny, though, Rosie looks annoyed, like Lena has personally snatched her private property out from Rosie's nose.

Then Kelly leans up to Tommy's ear and says she can't wait for bedtime, and he gets distracted all over again, trying to keep his pants decent, and by the time he's paying attention again Jack is mentioning his girlfriend. Adera's a nice girl, and at this stage it's really more just hanging out together than anything serious, but the minute he begins to talk about how well Adera can play the cello, Rosie droops.

She interrupts Jack, actually, asking if they can go home now, because she needs a shower and she's tired. So they troop out to find their vehicles and drive to Brendan's. Everybody except Kelly and Tommy is bunking at Brendan's tonight: MK in Emily's room, Ryan in a sleeping bag in Patrick's room. Jack and Martin on the family room sofa, Pop in the guest room. Ryan, stoked by the cookie that Kelly had finally persuaded him to eat, is now almost silly with tired. He lets Tommy brush his teeth and tug his PJs on, and then he says he can't sleep.

"Daddy, I can't go to sleep unless you read me."

"Read you what, bud?" He can only hope it's a book they brought with them.

"Friendly Beasts."

Good, they've got that one in the tote bag. He starts out with the words of that kid-friendly Christmas carol, reading slow and quiet, stroking Ryan's hair, and by the time they've got to the cow with the curly horn, Ryan is (finally) conked out. He kisses Ryan's forehead, prepares to get up, but then has to finish the book for Patrick's benefit. He goes into Em's room to kiss Mary Kate goodnight, then knocks on Rosie's door to tell her how well she did. He spends a few minutes rehashing the evening with Brendan and Tess, and then (finally!) he can leave with his wife for the hotel.

Kelly makes him wait.

She drifts around the room, hanging up her clothes for church tomorrow and washing her face, and then goes back to the suitcase to pull out a set of black lingerie he's never seen before. "Should I put this on?" she asks, a glint in her eye. "Or should I just not bother? I mean, knowing you and these shoes…" She looks at the floor and then back up, pretend-demure, and it's a wonder he can manage to not rip that dress right off her.

"Just take off your dress, baby," he says, feeling his voice rasp in his throat. He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"No, kiss me," she pleads, so of course he can't resist that. They wind up undressing each other between kisses, and then she pushes him backward into the chair and gets on her knees.

Oh Jesus. She does much of this, he won't last. He tells her so, when things are about to reach that point of no return, and then she moves to the bed, reclining on it in a pose that has him practically jumping on her. He kisses down her neck to her beautiful tits, and she says, "Mmmm." He kisses farther down and she moans. His hands find her hips and then slide down lower, to her mound and then still lower. She's extremely wet, and he doesn't know if he can hold back any more, not even to get his mouth on her. Not with her going down on him, not with her in those incredibly sexy shoes.

"Baby, you sure? 'Cause it won't take me long," he says to her, into her belly button. It makes her gasp, and then clutch at his shoulders to pull him up and onto her body, all soft and hot and welcoming under him and _holy fucking hell_ she feels like paradise. Before he gets too far gone, he manages to pull back out and turn her onto her stomach, propping her up on cushy hotel pillows so he can look at her beautiful ass and that adorable tattoo just above it, just between his hands on her hips. And then they're joined again and she's making her noises again. She loves it this way, and because she loves it… because she's been teasing him all night… because she's wearing those shoes and because she is his Kelly… moaning oh God yes and he knows she's close… he can't hold it. A split second after she says she's gonna come, he knows he will too.

They make use of that hotel bed once more, in the middle of the night, and again when they wake up. "I love room service," she teases, and kisses him.

**The first performance of The Nutcracker I saw live was when I was maybe eight years old in, yes, Roanoke. And there was a live orchestra, which utterly fascinated me. All that stuff going on up on the stage, all the costumes and the glitter and sparkle, all the motion and grace – and it was lovely. Really lovely. But I fell for the music first, first and always. Saw another production live when I was perhaps twelve, and my sister was eight, and it was the same: magic. **

**I admit to always being disappointed when productions used prerecorded music. I understand why they do it. Professional musicians are unionized (even in Virginia, which is a right-to-work state), and paying an orchestra is **_**wildly**_** expensive. Oh, but I miss the live music. Sigh.**


	15. Chapter 15: A Bagel Christmas

**FDTR: A Bagel Christmas**

**Set 7 years after the events of TLRH: Jack is 15, Martin is 13, Mary Kate is 5 and Ryan is 3. Bagel is approximately 9; that's past middle age for a beagle-terrier mix (that's all I've been able to ascertain about his parentage, and it's based mostly on his looks) but not quite wheelchair age for a dog his size. **

Kelly is _ragged out._ It's Christmas Day, she just worked three nights in a row (including Christmas Eve) at the hospital, and she napped all day, but her schedule is mixed up and she's not sure whether she's coming or going. The kids got up and opened presents soon after she got home this morning, and then they ate navel oranges and eggs with turkey sausage and red peppers, and she collapsed into bed right after that, only managing to kiss everybody once.

Tommy has just come in to wake her up with a cup of tea. "Baby," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting the tea on the nightstand, "can you get up?"

"Hmmm. Whazzit?"

"Gettin' on for dinnertime. Pop's comin' over. And the kids wanted to watch the Grinch with you." He leans over and kisses her forehead. "Are you sick? Because you're not usually this beat."

Kelly shakes her head, enticed by the clean, warm masculine smell of him to sit up and hug him. "Don't think so. I think I was just tired, trying to get all the Christmas stuff done at home and work nights too. I think I just needed the sleep."

"Good. Glad you got some rest." He gets off the bed and goes to her dresser. "Sweats are fine, baby, but you gotta get up so you can start getting your schedule back to normal. Need a shower?" He tosses her favorite yoga pants onto the bed, and a warm tunic sweater follows them. It's a beautiful kingfisher blue, and just looking at the color makes her feel better.

"Probably." She tosses back the covers and drags herself out of bed as Tommy skims through her lingerie drawer and tosses a matching set of blue bra and lacy underwear on top of the clothes. _Those_ undies? Hmm. "Are you getting ideas?"

"About you naked? Always. But I'd rather have you up and functioning before I have my way with you." He adds a thick pair of fluffy gray socks to the stack of clothes, turning to watch her make her slow way into the master bathroom.

She stays in the shower until the water starts to cool, and then she makes sure to rub some scented body butter into her skin, to make up for the drying effect of the hot water. A little makeup, a little hair gel, her silver hoop earrings and her wedding rings, the clothes Tommy had set out for her – and she's done. When she comes downstairs, it's to find that between Tommy and the older kids, the dining room is set up for a nice dinner, and Paddy is sitting on the couch reading This Is the Star to MK and Ryan. "Hey, baby," Tommy says, and kisses her. "You look better."

"I feel better," she says. "Wow, look what you guys did."

"Ham's about ready to come out of the oven," Tommy says. "I baked that corn pudding thing you made yesterday, and the scalloped apples. Green beans are steaming now, just gotta warm up the rolls."

"Wow," Kelly says again. "I didn't know you were gonna do all this stuff! Thank you, baby." She hugs him hard.

"Careful, I gotta check the beans," he says, but he's grinning at her. "Thought you were the only one who could cook, right? I found your to-do list for today, and I figured Jack and Martin and me could take care of things." He leans down to kiss her again. "Of course, we didn't try for homemade mashed potatoes, but I figure with everything else we won't be sorry we went for the instant ones."

"The pouch kind? Those aren't bad, they're not gluey like the box instant." She kisses him back again, feeling like she got double Christmas presents this year. Wow. He and the boys _cooked. _"What'd I miss while I was asleep?"

Jack, putting serving utensils out, grins at her. "Mr. and Mrs. Markley came by with the kids. They brought cookies – the peanut butter kind with chocolate kisses in, the ones Martin likes."

"Yum," Martin says. "I had two. I had to hide 'em from Ryan, though, 'cause if he eats cookies he won't eat dinner." Kelly nods.

Tommy adds, "And Fenroy and Melissa came by with baby Aidan."

"_What_, you let me_ miss_ that? How come you didn't wake me up?" Baby Aidan is six weeks old, with a tuft of black hair that sticks up on his head like a cockatoo's feathery crown. He's adorable.

"I tried, Mom," Jack says. "You were out cold. Snoring."

"Was not," Kelly says, but she knows she probably was. "So what's the baby doing now?"

"Sleeping, mostly," Tommy says. "Totally conked the whole time. Boy, he's cute, though. Melissa said you could come see her at home tomorrow." He grins at her. "Poor Melissa, she looks like she's been run over by a city bus."

"Can't believe I missed the baby," Kelly complains.

Tommy rolls his eyes and raises his voice. "Come on, guys, _food_. I'm starving. It gets worse when you're the one in the kitchen waiting."

Dinner, although it mostly involved either sticking dishes in the oven to warm up or boiling water, is really good. Bagel is trolling the floor for crumbs and dropped bits, and every now and then Kelly feels a cold nose on her leg, in the tiny space between pant leg and sock. She surreptitiously drops him a little piece of ham and then checks to make sure that Ryan's eating his veggies. He's not. She points to the green beans. "Eat those beans, bud." He doesn't say anything, but he pouts and gives her a reproachful look. She raises her eyebrows. "Eat them. You know why? Because they're not green beans, they're mean beans. You gotta eat them before they eat you."

Ryan stares at her suspiciously, then picks up his fork and stabs a green bean. "I eat 'em, Mommy."

"Good for you." She looks up to see Tommy and Paddy staring just as suspiciously at her as Ryan had (maybe that's genetic, who knows?), and she shrugs a little and jerks her head toward the kid now calmly and carefully stabbing each bean before he eats it. It _worked,_ didn't it? Then she notices that Mary Kate's not sitting straight in her seat, she's about to fall out. "MK, honey, please sit in your chair."

Mary Kate says, indignantly, "I am, Mommy."

"You're not. I can see you."

"I'm sitting with _half_ my butt on the chair," Mary Kate explains. Martin laughs and Tommy bites his lip, while Paddy sips coffee to keep from laughing.

"Please put your whole butt on the chair. I don't want you to fall on the floor."

"Yeah, 'cause Bagel would eat me if I did. He eats everything that falls on the floor!" Mary Kate giggles. Bagel, hearing his name, barks once, and then pokes his head out from under the table to see if Mary Kate might drop a treat.

"Oy," Kelly says, putting her open hand over her face and dragging it down in exhaustion. Honestly, looking after preschoolers is harder than herding cats. Why on earth did she have two more? They're _exhausting. _Bagel sniffs her ankle again, and she jumps.

After the younger kids finally eat as much of their dinners as Kelly can coax them to, she manages to put the leftovers in the fridge while Martin clears the table and Jack loads the dishwasher. And then it's into the living room to watch The Grinch. Kelly cuddles up on the couch with Mary Kate and Ryan, Martin on her left side and Paddy on her right. Ryan puts his head on her shoulder, and then she remembers: _Oh yeah. This is why I have more kids – because they're mostly sweet and only occasionally exhausting._ Tommy says, 'Hey, you mind if I sit in front of you?" and sits on the floor without waiting for an answer. Jack sits next to him.

Bagel comes in and flops onto the floor in front of Tommy, who is still his favorite person in the Whole Entire World. He lies on his back, all four paws in the air, shamelessly begging for belly rubs. Tommy leans over and says right into the dog's grinning face, "Dude. Have a little dignity."

Bagel grins bigger and waves one paw, like he's saying, "Come on, you know you want to rub my tummy."Tommy laughs, and proceeds to make Bagel's evening by patting the dog all along his round little doggy belly and then moving on to scritch him behind the ears. Bagel's tongue lolls out in ecstasy.

Jack, with the remote, starts the movie. "You know this one, right, Grandpop? You've seen this?"

"I think so," Paddy says in that scratched-up voice of his. "The green guy hates Christmas, if I remember correctly."

"He's the Grinch, Grandpop," Mary Kate says.

"Is that so, Monkey? You wanna sit with me?" He holds his arms out to her, and she scrambles over to his lap.

Kelly smiles into Ryan's hair as the Whos start their "Welcome Christmas" song. The cartoon goes along, and the Grinch makes his nefarious plan to steal Christmas, and when he's dressed up as Santa Claus he needs a reindeer… and who should come along but his dog, Max. Max – who looks like a mutant dachshund – is clearly the only being who does (or could) like the Grinch, and here's the Grinch being mean to him. The kids are booing him at every turn.

Ryan laughs at the horn weighing poor Max's head down while his feet rise up in the air, and then Mary Kate says, "That's mean, Grinch! That's mean to Max!"

Ryan echoes, "Mean to Max! _Bad_." And Tommy's shoulders start shaking.

Martin says, "No, we would never be mean to Bagel like that, would we, Ry?"

"NO!" Ryan yells over the Grinch fixing up his sled with empty bags. "Bad Grinch! Never be mean to doggies." Tommy, still rubbing Bagel's belly, is laughing. Ryan leans forward from Kelly's lap to say to the dog, "We be nice to doggies. We pat Bagel."

Bagel barks, but he doesn't budge. Kelly can't blame him – who'd voluntarily give up a belly rub from Tommy? Or an Anything Rub, really. She shivers just a little, thinking of the way his hands feel on her body… remembering that he'd had his hands in her hair the very minute she realized that she'd fallen in love with him.

Ryan is now trying to reach the dog, and he falls out of Kelly's lap and onto his dad's substantial shoulder. "Hey," Tommy says to him, "wanna come down here?" So Ryan slithers down onto Tommy's lap, where they can both pet the dog.

"Me too!" Mary Kate protests, and scrambles off her grandfather's lap without a backward glance, crawling over Jack to get to her dad.

"Okay, so now I can't pat Bagel," Tommy says, "because my hands are busy keepin' you guys on my lap. So you two have to pet him."

"Okay, Daddy," MK says.

"We're missing dialogue," Jack says mildly.

"Run it back, then," Kelly tells him. It's not dialogue they're missing, it's the lyrics of the song about how awful the Grinch is, and Jack likes to sing along. As it turns out, they all sing along except for Paddy, every time another verse of the song pops up. The Grinch steals Christmas stuff, and makes poor Max pull the loaded sled up the mountain – and the Whos sing anyway. Christmas comes without ribbons, without tags, without packages, boxes or bags… and the Grinch's heart grows three sizes from realizing the true meaning of Christmas.

Kelly glances at Paddy, who is watching not the screen but the way Tommy is kissing his son on the head, and then his daughter, and bumping his shoulder up against Jack's with a smile at his stepson. Paddy blinks once or twice, looking a little misty. The Whos sing about it being Christmas "so long as we have hands to clasp," and Kelly does not care whether she's embarrassing anybody or not; she grabs her son Martin's hand and then her father-in-law's, and Paddy is startled but then his big rough hand squeezes hers and he smiles.

Family. It's so good.

The movie finishes, and Kelly directs her younger kids to say goodnight to their grandfather and thank him again for Christmas presents. She hugs Paddy herself, and then takes the kids upstairs to get them ready for bed. On the stairs she hears her older boys thanking the man they call Grandpop, since they have no other grandfather, for their own gifts. Good, at least they were listening too.

Once the kids are in bed, she goes back downstairs. Even though she slept all afternoon, she could go right back to sleep now. But not without her man. She finds him in the living room, wrestling with the dog. This is not exactly a fair prospect for Bagel, because he might weigh all of twenty-five pounds, but he puts some effort into it, pretend-biting his favorite person and pretend-growling, writhing around on his back and waving his paws mock-threateningly. She can hear Tommy talking to Bagel, in a voice full of amusement, "… vicious, evil mutt! Bite _me,_ willya? Who's a big fierce puppy, then?" Bagel growls again, and Kelly bites her hand to keep from laughing out loud. "You come here," Tommy says to Bagel, gathering the dog up into his lap. "No more wrestling, I'm just gonna rub your belly, you shameless thing. Who's a good dog?" Bagel makes a soft beagle-y howl, not a bark. Tommy rubs the dog's stomach, and his ears, talking to him all the time. "You're Daddy's good boy, aren'tcha, good Bagel, what a good doggie… ooooh, I'm gonna getcha… you have soft ears. And who's a sweet puppy? Bagel's a sweet puppy."

Bagel barks, as usual, at the sound of his name, and waves his paws. Tommy's face is so happy and unguarded. "I'm gonna _getcha_," he says, and pokes Bagel in the ribs. Bagel lets out an undignified squeak and Kelly bursts out laughing. Both heads turn toward her, and Tommy's ears go pink even as he grins at her. "Okay, buddy, you can go," he says to the dog, but Kelly protests.

"No, he can stay. I haven't had a chance to fuss over him." She leans over to hug the dog. "Who has the happiest doggie face in the whole world? Awww, Bagel, you're such a sweetie." She sits on the floor to get a better angle, so she and Tommy can pet the dog together. "Who loves his daddy, oh my _goodness,_ it's this dog. You have a good Christmas, Bagel?"

"'Course he did," Tommy says. "He got a butcher bone in his stocking – no, don't worry, I made him take it outside – and some bacon treats, and the kids played with him all day. We should all have such great Christmases."

Finally Bagel puts his head on the carpet and sighs a huge doggie sigh, as if he has reached canine nirvana.

"There you go, puppy," Tommy says and gives Bagel a final ear rub. "Bedtime." He gets up and walks over to the soft dog bed nestled up to the wall, pats it. "Come on. Bedtime." Bagel rolls over and trots to his spot. He turns around three times in it and then lies down with his nose on his paws. "Good dog." Tommy pats his head. "You want some tea or somethin', baby? You still look tired."

"I am, a bit," Kelly says. "Yeah, tea sounds good." They go into the kitchen to wash their hands. She hits the "heat" button on the electric kettle before getting two mugs out of the cabinet and two decaf Earl Grey teabags out of the pantry.

"I can do that, you know," Tommy says, but he doesn't budge from his chair at the kitchen table.

"I know you can. I saw what you did for dinner," Kelly tells him, smiling. "You did good, chef." A mental picture of him patting the dog rises up, and she smiles bigger. "Maybe you'll pat_ me_ now, though."

He grins. "You sure you wanna give me ideas? I get my hands on you, I'm probably not gonna take 'em off you until we're both happy."

"Sure, I could use a head rub," she teases, pretending not to know what he means.

"Well, c'mere then." He stands up and pulls her by the hand onto the sunporch. "More comfortable on the futon."

"I can't hear when the water's boiling from here," she says, still pretending. "Maybe we should go back in the – "

He cuts her off, pulling her down onto the futon. "Nope. Siddown. Relax. You look better, but you still look like death warmed over, like your mom would say. You just relax and enjoy." He puts his hands into her hair, rubbing firmly but gently, careful not to tangle her hair any more than he has to. It feels wonderful. She lets her shoulders drop, closing her eyes.

"I missed you last night," she confesses. "I _hate_ being away from you on Christmas Eve."

"I know."

"I don't want to have to do that again. I'd rather work all day Christmas."

"I know." He leans over to kiss her forehead. "I missed you too. The kids were fine at Mass. Ryan just went to sleep on Pop's lap and Mary Kate asked a million questions. Remind you of anything?"

She laughs, and then can't refrain from a hum of pleasure as he hits a good spot right over her occipital bone. "God, that feels so good."

"Didn't feel right, not seein' you last night. I had half a mind to come by the hospital on the way home from Mass just so I could give you your Christmas Eve kisses."

She imagines that, wistfully. "You might have gotten me fired."

"That's why I didn't do it."

"Almost wish you had anyway." She shuts up for a few minutes, just letting his fingers find all the achy spots. Forget the tea, this is way better than tea. "You know what this reminds me of, though?"

"That time you had a headache at Brendan and Tess', right? Tess started rubbin' your head and her hands got tired so I said I'd do it, and Tess said you should lie down on my bed because hers wasn't made up. Thank God it wasn't." He smiles. "Because at that point I'da done just about anything to get my hands on you. However innocent it had to be."

"Yeah. That time," she says softly, remembering it. Remembering how she'd felt then.

"God, I wanted to kiss you so bad," he tells her, just as softly. "I had the world's most desperate hard-on right then, too, just _thinkin_' about kissing you."

"You weren't the only one turned on by it," she says. Funny, they've never talked about this. "I was this little melted puddle. I think it was the first time I'd seen you without your guard up, and I wanted to just… fall into you. I was scared you were going to kiss me."

"Why?"

"Because that was the moment. That was when I knew."

"It was?" His hands stop moving.

She opens her eyes to look at him, there in the light from the kitchen. He looks startled, his eyes deep as oceans just like they were then. "It was. I wasn't ready. I probably wasn't ready when you did kiss me." She reaches for his face. "But I wouldn't have missed it for anything. Not anything, Tommy. All that crap we went through? I think it only made us more determined to love each other."

He blinks, twice, and there's a pause while he swallows. "I really wanna love you right now," he whispers, and her eyes sting with happy tears too.

"Love me then," she says. "I'll love you right back."

So they do.

**A/N: Okay, truth: my middle kid, known on my blog as Gaze for his pretty blue eyes, was at the age of three master of the Disapproving Look. Tell him that he had to eat his peas or that it was bedtime and he couldn't stay up late, and he'd stick his lip out and fix you with an expression that said, "You are mean. You stomp puppies for fun, you evil person, you… but alas, I must do your nefarious bidding." It cracked me up every time. Every. Single. Time. **

**Also, calling them "mean beans" worked great on our oldest, but not the other two. I have no idea why.**


	16. Chapter 16: Cheers, Part 1

**FDTR: Cheers (Part 1)  
**

**Set 20 years after the last chapter of TLRH. Christmas Eve.**

**"Here is to loving, to romance, to us.  
May we travel together throughout time.  
We alone count as none, but together we're one,  
For our partnership puts love to rhyme."  
~Irish toast**

"To love," Brendan says, lifting his glass of champagne. "To a wonderful family. To twenty years together... may you have fifty more, and may they be just as happy. Here's to Tommy and Kelly, may God bless them. Cheers."

Voices around the table chorus, "To Tommy and Kelly," or, depending, "To Mom and Dad," because two of the three youngest, toasting with sparkling cider, are their children. Kelly shares a happy glance with her husband and sips from her glass. _Twenty years. Twenty years of Us... Brendan's right, may there be many more_. Tommy's return toast is, "To family," and everyone lifts a glass to that.

Kelly can't help but look around Brendan and Tess' house and see who's missing. Paddy, of course, who's been gone almost eight years. Even though he'd had several years sober, the long-term drinking had aged his body to a considerable degree, and he'd suffered a heart attack at home in his favorite chair. Kelly misses him, misses how steady he was there toward the end of his life – a bit like Brendan, really.

And Martin's not here, either. He's at work, still on active duty at Edwards AFB in California. He'll be getting leave after New Year's, but a new prototype project he's working on isn't due to wrap up until then. He's going to call in a little while, so he can Skype with the family.

Tess' parents aren't here, but they are at home in Pittsburgh and doing just fine. Kelly's stepfather Fred died two years after she married Tommy, and her mother had moved back home to Norton, to live near Kelly's sister Susan.

Kelly looks around the living room, lingering on each face.

Brendan, of course. The older he gets, the more he looks like his father, with those slanted Celtic eyes and his face gone a little craggy with laugh lines. He looks far younger than Kelly remembers Paddy looking, and she attributes that to Brendan's general contentment. Not a lot of men get to their fifties looking this good.

Tess, too, still looks like herself. Fine lines at the corners of her hazel eyes don't detract from her classic looks and attractive bone structure, and her smile is still delighted and welcoming.

Frank's here. He's going gray now, but in the attractive way that dark-haired men do, and of course his laugh lines are deeper, but his smile is still wide and real. And when he looks at Troy, his partner of the past six years, the smile only gets happier. Troy, who teaches psychology at U Penn, had met Frank one day when Frank checked in on Jack, then one of Troy's students. Troy is tall and lanky, in his early forties with a shock of bushy wheat-colored hair and an intellectual's detached, sharp green eyes. They'd hit it off right away, Troy asking Frank about his intuitive understanding of sports psychology and Frank suggesting they discuss it over dinner. They'd eloped to New York over a weekend five months after that, neither one of them seeming to regret a thing since.

And Jack's here, of course. He did his undergraduate at U Penn, and then his MD at Yale-New Haven Medical Center, and now he's doing his residency at Temple, here in Philly. Jack, now 28, is a handsome young man, with his father's height and blond hair, but he's got soft eyes and an easy charm all his own. He's still the sensitive one, the responsible one, the one who makes sure everybody else is all right.

Emily and her husband are here, too. Emily and Dustin, both finance majors at Penn State, have been inseparable since they met at college. They'd had a lovely wedding four years ago, even if her father had cried, escorting her down the aisle. Perhaps especially because he'd cried. Kelly wonders if they're planning to have a baby or wait a little longer – or not bother at all. They both have careers, Emily in banking and Dustin in investments.

Rosie is dressed in complete contrast to her sister's conservative choices in color and fabric. Instead of Emily's pretty cream cashmere sweater and olive wool trousers, she's wearing a bright red tunic sweater and a black-and-red plaid skirt, with high black boots. Her wild mane of curls bounces everywhere, because Rosie bounces everywhere she goes, pure exuberance and joy. She's 24, a junior ad exec at Tierney here in Philly, young and enjoying her independence. Rosie seems particularly happy tonight.

Patrick, Brendan and Tess' youngest, is a freshman at Temple. Patrick's a sweet, dreamy kid, and he's still almost always got his nose in a book – fantasy or sci-fi novels, mostly. Tess often says of him, "If he were any more laid-back, he'd fall over." He's a good swimmer, but possibly the least athletic of his generation of the family.

And her sweet girl, Mary Kate, pretty in a burgundy peasant blouse and gray dress pants. Flats on her feet, of course, because MK hates heels. They make her nervous. She's still considering her college choices. In fact, later on Kelly needs to make sure that her daughter has finished all her college application essays, since most of them are due at midnight January 1.

And the baby of the family, Ryan. Ryan, fifteen, is still something of an enigma to his mother. He's fascinated by biological science and bored to death by almost everything else, except wrestling. He still hasn't quite got all his growth yet, or at least Kelly hopes not, because he hasn't reached his father's average height. Ryan still makes faces when his parents kiss. This amuses his father, who seems to enjoy embarrassing his son every chance he gets. Or maybe he just likes kissing his wife in public as well as in private... either way, Kelly's not complaining.

She comes full circle back to Tommy and stops, partly because he is still the most beautiful man she's ever seen, and partly because he's smiling at her in that _I know you_ way that's both sweet and exasperating. "Quit countin' noses," he leans over and whispers to her now. "Martin'll call in a little bit."

Something at the back of Kelly's mind is poking her, though, some... something that she hadn't expected, something odd... it's the look on Jack's face, maybe. Anticipatory, and full of a secret glow.

For now, though, Kelly and Tess start cleaning up after dinner; they dragoon Emily and Dustin into helping, and after ten minutes Tommy wanders back in and hip-checks Kelly out of her place in front of the sink. "Go sit down, baby," he says. "You cooked. We'll clean up. Em, go get your worthless dad in here and we'll let the people who slaved over the food relax." Emily giggles, but she comes back into the kitchen with Brendan in tow, and Kelly and Tess have a chance to sit on the couch, heads together, watching the younger kids go through old photos on the screen.

"Is that _Dad?_" Ryan asks, scrutinizing a photo from one of Tommy's old UFC posters. In it, Tommy's sporting the kind of long shorts fighters wore in those days, heavily-muscled arms at his sides, and staring the camera down as if he'd like to stalk it and smash it. His skin's glossy, as if he's been sweating, although Kelly knows the moisture came from a sprayed-on water-glycerin mixture that was intended to bead up attractively. His hair is tousled with wet-look gel, and the tattoos and the predatory look in his eye make him look dangerous.

"_Ohh, _yeah, that's your dad," she tells him, getting in a good leer – not just because Tommy looks dead sexy in that shot, but also because any hint of parental hanky-panky just makes Ryan squirm and she can't resist.

"Newsflash, kid," Tess teases her nephew, "your dad's _hot._"

"Aunt Tess, that's just gross," Ryan says, in resignation. "Besides. He doesn't look like that these days." True, he doesn't. He doesn't have that almost threatening bulk, and his hair's going silver in places, but Kelly's heart still jumps when he walks into a room. And he still kisses like a god.

The gift exchange takes a little while, just little things like books and handmade things, as well as the usual exchange of sporting-events tickets between Brendan and Tommy, and the annual planning of girls' weekends for Tess and Kelly. And then Kelly gets a text that Martin's going to call to Skype, and they do that for a while, chatting on the big screen about the testing for a new prototype plane. Martin, handsome in his ABUs, can't tell them any details, of course, but he's clearly excited to be involved with this project. They discuss his leave plans for next week.

"Any news I ought to hear?" Martin asks, looking at Jack expectantly.

"No," Jack says, and shakes his head.

Martin's eyebrows climb up his forehead, but he shrugs and smiles. "So, Mom, tell me what you had for dinner." Kelly starts to mention the grilled trout in dill butter, but Ryan butts in, raving over roast asparagus and chunky potatoes, the pound cake with raspberries, and Kelly just lets him. Ryan looks up to Martin like you wouldn't believe. There are lots of "miss yous" and "see you soons" and some Christmas wishes, and Kelly blows her younger son a kiss before he says good night and signs off.

Frank and Troy are heading off to another gathering with some of Troy's family, so there are hugs and Merry-Christmas wishes all around before they leave. There's plenty of time before the family group has to leave at ten-twenty for Midnight Mass – it's always crowded, and Brendan likes to get there very early so they have seats together. Kelly's thinking it might be nice to sing some Christmas carols together, if Emily's willing to play the piano for it, but right then all hell breaks loose.

"Well," Rosie says, getting up off the ottoman in front of the couch and settling her skirt, "I have an announcement to make. Jack?"

Jack, from his place next to Kelly on the couch, has tensed up. "Rosie, I don't think this is the best idea. Let me talk to your – "

"We're getting married!" Rosie exclaims. "Jack and me."

_Rosie and Jack. Jack and Rosie._ And through her shock, Kelly somehow manages to turn her head and look at her oldest son. He's not denying it. His whole face, which five seconds ago was wearing its normal pleasant, fond look, the one he gets with family, has now gone beet red, and his expression is complicated: affection, exasperation, embarrassment, amusement all combine in it.

She is remembering a phone conversation with him a few months ago, in which she'd asked how he was enjoying living in Philly again, whether there were any girls who'd caught his eye, and he'd said. "Not really. Actually, I've been spending quite a bit of time with Rosie." And since Kelly had known that their apartments – both shared with college friends – were on the same side of town, not far from each other, and that Jack was terribly busy with his residency, and that Jack enjoys family, this did not seem odd to her.

And she's also remembering the way these two have always been with each other – gentle, affectionate, teasing and close. Jack's always shown Rosie an indulgence and consideration that he's never shown Emily, and she's always come to him for comfort and advice. So _that's _why these two have been so glowingly happy all evening...

While she's been pondering, Brendan's hair has figuratively caught on fire. He's out of his chair, exclaiming that Rosie can't be serious and he can't believe his ears. Kelly pats Jack lightly on his knee and gives him a swift glance of encouragement. She's not sure how she feels about this yet, or whether it is indeed serious, but hearing Brendan roar she knows Jack needs to defuse the situation.

He stands up and puts a hand on Rosie's shoulder, speaking to her over Brendan's outraged bluster. "Sweetheart, I did say I thought this should be a private conversation first. And we need to apologize to everyone for dropping a bomb on them like that." His voice is calm and soothing, and Brendan stops talking to run his hand through his hair and breathe through his nose. Tess has stood up, too, crossing the room to stand near her husband and put a calming hand on his back.

Tess catches Kelly's eye, her expression radiating confusion and consternation, as well as a tiny bit of_ I'll-be-darned _amusement, and it's this that makes Kelly think that everything will eventually be all right. Tommy's hand captures hers and she looks at him. He's wearing the same sort of look that Tess is, and she gets a sudden rush of love for him. He'd been "unsuitable" too at one point, and yet here they are, still lovebirds after twenty years.

Everything is going to be just fine… eventually.

"Can we all... why don't we just sit down and discuss it calmly?" Jack is saying. "Or why don't we have a private conversation, where we can explain how things happened and the progression of events, and after the story's been told you can ask questions or say whatever you like." He is nervous, Kelly can tell, but there is always a quiet peace inside her son, and while it can be disturbed by circumstances, it's not disturbed now. He's not worried.

"Sounds good to me," Brendan says, but he is not calm. The Papa Bear protector has been awoken in him, and that's always when he's most dangerous. "Let's go. You and me, _right now._"

"Daddy?" Rosie says, shaken.

"Not you, sweetheart, just me and Jack. Let's go. Kitchen." He seizes Jack's forearm and starts walking.

"I'm comin' too," Tommy says, squeezing Kelly's hand once and throwing her a reassuring glance before he gets off the couch and follows them.

"How about Kelly and I go upstairs and have a chat with you, Rosie, and the rest of you can go to the family room and – I don't know, watch TV." Tess is speaking in her blunt, _let's get to the bottom of this_ voice, and while Kelly's still convinced that things will be smoothed over in time, Tess has fire in her eye and there is bound to be some plain speech before the evening's over.

Why hadn't Jack and Rosie just _told _someone they were dating? Tess hates surprises. And Brendan's about as bad concerning his baby girls as Tommy is about his own daughter. Brendan had had two years to get used to Dustin by the time Emily made her engagement announcement, and he'd still been touchy over the whole thing for a good two weeks. Rosie, as spontaneous as she is, should know this already.

"Sounds like we'll be missing out on all the drama," Mary Kate mutters to her brother under her breath. "Of course. 'Cause we're the babies."

"Oh, _I _don't want in on the drama," Patrick says. "Come on, MK. Ryan, let's go find a Christmas program or something." Dustin gets up to join them.

"I'm coming with you," Emily says, unperturbed, to her mother and sister and aunt.

Tess turns on her older daughter. "Did _you_ know?"

"I did. Let's go up to my room." That's a good idea – it's neutral ground, compared to either Rosie's bedroom or the one that Brendan and Tess share. Emily, more composed than any of the rest of the group, gets everyone to take their shoes off and sit in a circle on the double bed. Kelly, even while she's agreeing to this and slipping off her pretty gray suede pumps, is silently acknowledging that Emily has good ideas. Without her boots on, Rosie's far less likely to get her temper up and go stomping out of the room (shades of her Uncle Tommy), and curling up on the bed together has echoes of cozy girl chats. "Now," Emily says, handing her sister a throw pillow, "Rosie, why don't you just tell us what you told me? How things happened. And then people can ask questions if they want, sound okay?"

"Okay," Rosie says. "It's not like there's something _wrong_ about this, you know," she says directly to her mother, defensive. "I'm only related to Jack by marriage, not by blood."

"I know that," Tess says, stiff as a board.

"Well, look, Mom. And Aunt Kelly." Rosie peeks at Kelly and then talks mostly to Tess. "You might not have realized, but I don't know how you would have missed it – I always had the biggest crush on Jack."

"Oh, I remember," Tess says drily. "I remember you sitting at the table in a booster seat singing 'Jack, Jack, I love Jack,' when you were four years old. And we all noticed again when you were twelve."

"Well, can you blame me? Jack was always so sweet to me," Rosie says. "And it's not like he ever behaved inappropriately."

No, Jack the Proper Gentleman would never be inappropriate – and especially not with his cousins, his mother thinks. It's not as if she taught him to be like that, either; Jack has always simply had what she calls a "delicate sense of order." He likes things to be _right,_ and putting the moves on his little girl cousin would have violated that sense of rightness.

"He was just... sweet," Rosie says again, and her cheeks color. "I always felt like I didn't want to date anybody who didn't treat me the way Jack does. Which is why I kept trying out different boys, and if they didn't measure up, I told them to take a hike."

Rosie's had an active dating schedule since high school. She's pretty and vivacious, and there have been plenty of boys available to take her to dances or the movies, but so far she's only had one boyfriend that lasted past three months. That was Henry, in college, and once they'd graduated they'd gone their separate ways without much drama.

"And he always kept in touch with me while I was in college – he'd send me little things in the mail, just to keep my spirits up, and he'd call me on Friday nights to make sure I wasn't sitting lonely in my dorm room, encouraging me to take a break and do something fun. We talked a lot when he and Amy broke up, and then again when Henry took that job in California. I just... he was always _there,_ and if I needed something he would move heaven and earth to give it to me." Rosie blinks twice, her face going soft for just a second. "You know all this, don't you? Both of you."

Kelly nods. She had thought it was simply a very close friendship, because Jack didn't show indications of physical interest in Rosie – no handsy-feelsy and no staring, even when the two families took beach vacations together, even when the two of them had been teenagers and Rosie started wearing bikinis.

Tess, sitting stiffly with her hands clasped in her lap, nods too.

"So, when I finished my internship with Holtzman-Stryker in New York and took the Tierney job, I was so glad to be living close to Jack. He had a free evening when he wasn't working at the hospital this past summer, and he took me out to dinner to celebrate my new job, and he was just so sweet, like always. He talked to me about my job and what I liked about it, and what it was like sharing the apartment with Darby instead of living here, and we just talked. I had a lovely time. When he took me home he brought me in and said hello to Darby, and we looked at some of my New York pictures, and he kissed me on the cheek and said goodnight.

"And then Darby looked at me and she said something like, 'Your cousin is a complete doll, really sweet. Do you think he'd mind if I asked him out?'" Rosie shakes her head. "And I finally had to admit that the idea made me really upset, the idea of her getting to have him when I couldn't. So I told her that, and she said it was gross to date your cousin, and I told her that technically he is my step-cousin and we don't have any DNA in common. And then Darby smacked me on the arm and told me I was being stupid _not_ to date him, when he clearly thought the world of me."

"So, then what?" Tess asks, voice flat with disapproval. "You forced him to admit his undying love?" Then she sneaks a guilty glance at Kelly.

"No, then I started thinking of him as a boyfriend. And the thing is, Mom, I noticed that other than kissing or saying overtly romantic things to me, Jack was behaving exactly _like _a boyfriend. Like, I was talking to him on the phone every night, and we would make plans together to go do things when he wasn't busy – he's busy a lot – and I just didn't feel right if I hadn't talked to him during the day. He's always happy to see me, he always has time for me." She takes a deep breath. "And one night last fall I made dinner at home, Aunt Kelly's lasagna recipe and salad, good but nothing fancy. While the three of us were eating dinner, Darby asked about my plans for the future, if I ever thought I'd meet the right guy. I just couldn't hold it back anymore. I said I thought I'd known the right guy all my life."

Kelly's eyes sting with tears and she fights to keep from smiling. She presses her lips together and does not look at Tess. She looks at Emily, who _is_ smiling.

Rosie takes another deep breath. "Right there at the kitchen table, with Darby in the room, I said that, and then I saw that Jack looked the happiest I've ever seen him look. So then I knew that it wasn't just me imagining things. That he felt the same way. He didn't even say anything right then, he just looked at my face and his eyes were all lit up. I just knew."

Tess sighs through her nose, looking down at her hands.

"So then Darby went in her room and turned on some music and we had a conversation while we were cleaning up the kitchen. Jack said that he'd always felt that way about me, but he wanted to wait until we were grown up, and now I seemed very grown up to him, and was I really serious? I told him I was, and I kept thinking, 'Oh, he'll kiss me now.' But he didn't. Not until about three weeks later, when we'd been trying out this dating thing for a while. He kissed me goodnight, no huge 'sexy' thing, just Jack really kissing me, and Mom, I just – I went up in flames."

Tess looks up, her eyebrows pulling down in a frown.

"No," Rosie hastens to say, "no, we're not – we're not having sex. Not even close. We decided we needed to wait until we're married. But I want to. I really want to. It's the first time I ever really understood you and Dad sneaking off to your room on Sunday afternoons." She looks over at Kelly. "And you and Uncle Tommy, you're _worse,_ you know. If I had a nickel for every time I walked in on you two kissing with his hands all over your butt..."

Kelly can't help it, she laughs. Maybe she's known all along too – that her serious, sensitive firstborn had a soulmate in her exuberantly joyful niece-by-marriage. "May you have so much happiness in your life, sweetie," Kelly says. "Whoever you marry," she adds, seeing that Tess is still concerned. "Look, Rosie, I think I've known for a long time, in the back of my mind, where Jack's heart was. Even if he didn't say anything to me. But that's new to your parents, and they need to be able to wrap their heads around it. Give them some time."

Emily nods. "I think I always knew too. Jack treats me like a sister, but he treats Rosie like a princess. The funny thing is, I never got jealous, I just realized it was special." She reaches over and puts her arm around her sister. "And when she called me last month, so happy she was crying, I figured it was about time."

Tess has not yet relaxed.

Kelly reaches for Rosie's hand and squeezes it. "But honey... I still have concerns too, issues that I'm not sure you two have addressed. So I'm gonna bring them up and ask about them, okay? First thing – when did the engagement take place? I just can't see this setup being according to Jack's plan."

Jack always has a plan. He doesn't function without one.

"Last night," Rosie says. "He did a shift at the hospital and came by after he was done – you know he's on call tomorrow, right?" Kelly nods. "And he said he thought tonight might be a good time to talk to my dad about getting married." Rosie's face falls, suddenly, as she thinks about it. "Oh. I guess maybe he meant he would talk to Daddy, and then... I screwed this all up," she says, quietly, and her lip quivers. "Oh no."

"Well, I wondered why you didn't have a ring," Emily says. "It didn't seem like Jack to not give you one."

"He said he thought I might like to pick it out," Rosie says and sniffles, looking woebegone. "Mom, I'm so sorry. I should have let him talk to you two first. I should have let you know ahead of time."

Tess reaches over to her daughter and pulls her close, holding her. "It's okay, honey. Listen, I just... I hate surprises. And this is a pretty big one."

"That's another thing," Kelly points out. "Besides neither one of you being open about it. I mean, this does affect everybody. Technically, you're not related by blood, but you did grow up with both sets of parents treating you like cousins. For another thing – well, say it doesn't work out. Say you get engaged and then you rethink it, and then what's going to happen to the family dynamic if people's feelings are hurt? I'd like to think we would get through that because we love each other, but it would be really dicey. You would need to be sure." Kelly does not say "divorce," but she is thinking it pretty loud.

"I'm as sure about this as I am that the sun will come up tomorrow," Rosie says from her mother's arms. "I have loved Jack my whole life. And now it's time for us to turn that into a romantic channel. It's _right._ I know it."

Tess looks at Kelly, and Kelly looks back.

And finally, finally, Tess says what she's thinking. "I have concerns too, honey. Like religion. And how long an engagement we're talking. But I've loved you all your life too, and I think... sweetie, you can be impulsive – witness your dropping the bomb on your dad like that, poor guy! - but you're right. There has always been something special between you and Jack, and at the very least, you can't say that you don't know each other. And I love Jack for himself. He's going to make somebody a really wonderful husband. I just need... a little time to get used to the idea that he'd be yours."

"There'll be time, Mom. We've waited this long, we can wait a little longer." And there are hugs and kisses all around.

* * *

The conversation in the kitchen is not going nearly as well.

"Siddown," Uncle Brendan says, the old Pittsburgh accent bleeding into his normally more-precise diction.

Rosie has really put her foot in it, Jack is realizing. He'd expected to meet resistance from her dad, for any number of reasons, but that's why he'd told Rosie yesterday that he'd like to speak to her dad and ask formal permission first. Apparently she'd misunderstood. Then again, Rosie's normal impulsiveness could have just popped up because she was excited. Sometimes she's like a puppy, jumping in with all four feet and then being surprised at how _wet _things get all of a sudden.

Jack sits down at the table. For reasons of his own comfort, he chooses the chair which Emily usually sits in. He'd like to have a little of Em's composure right now. It is a great relief to him to have his stepfather come into the kitchen as well and sit across the table from him, right next to his brother. Even though he hasn't spoken to Tommy at all about this, he wouldn't be a bit surprised if Tommy had already known how Jack felt about Rosie. It's hard to put anything over on Tommy.

"_So,_" Uncle Brendan says, with the grim zest of a villain interrogating a shackled James Bond. "How long has _this _been goin' on? And you better not have laid a pinky on my baby girl, or you're losing both your balls tonight."

"This" could refer to any number of things, so Jack goes for full disclosure. He sure as heck doesn't want Brendan going all Chuck Norris on his ass – he's seen video of Brendan in the cage, back in the day. "Well... as for things being serious between us, that's been happening over the last couple of months. It was just before Halloween when we kissed for the first time." Tommy's eyebrows go practically up to his hairline, while Brendan's pull down low. Jack does not let himself remember, while sitting in front of Rosie's father, what that kiss was like; he doesn't want to give away any of those visceral feelings. He's been trying _so hard_ not to think of Rosie in that fashion, to wait until he's allowed to touch her as her husband.

Jack takes a deep breath. "That's as far as things have gone physically. But as for my feelings for Rosie, those go back a long way. Years. I mean, I think I've always known that I loved her. But I didn't want to push her into anything, so I decided to wait until she was at least in college. And in the meantime, I started thinking that it would just be weird, and I should let her go her own way. I mean, I still had feelings but I didn't act on them.

"And then I met Amy at Yale, and she was terrific, and then Rosie started dating Henry so I thought that was my sign that it was never going to happen. But when it came down to it, I just didn't feel the same about Amy. I didn't want to make sacrifices for her, and as badly as it hurt when she broke up with me, I think I was actually a little bit relieved." He stops to think what to say, because Brendan's and Tommy's expressions have not changed.

"Rosie and I started spending time together when she moved back here to work at Tierney, and the more I saw her the more I realized... well... there's nobody else for me. I'd rather have her be happy than anything else in the world. I love her."

"So you played the romance card, you swept her off her feet, and now she thinks she's in _love,"_ Brendan says, unsmiling, arms crossed. "She's hooked."

Jack shakes his head. "No. It's not like that. We didn't do any of the big romantic things, no big full-court press with wine and flowers and candy and poetry, none of that. Just normal stuff, like grocery shopping, or watching TV together. But we talk. We really tell each other our hearts. And when we're sitting side by side at a movie, not holding hands... or cleaning up the kitchen... or talking on the phone... I just know that this is what I want for my life: Rosie beside me."

There's a little silence, and Jack sneaks a look at his stepfather. Tommy still seems a little surprised, but he's not in a temper the way Uncle Brendan is. He looks very thoughtful just now.

"So," Brendan says. He's clearly still very angry. "I have treated you like my nephew for twenty years, and here you are telling me that you're jonesing for my daughter and you been doin' it for years. You got some stones, man."

"Dude," Tommy says to his brother, calmly. "You know, you fell in love at sixteen. And you're still in love with the same girl."

"You are not helping," Brendan says, and there's an edge of panic in his voice. "Knock it the fuck off."

Jack can't keep his eyebrows from going up. Uncle – no, Brendan – is really upset. He never swears like this, or at least he's never done it in front of Jack. Tommy hasn't so much as blinked, but Jack doesn't know whether that's because this is standard Marine language or whether Tommy's used to hearing it from Brendan in times of exigency anyway.

"I'm just sayin'," Tommy says, shrugging like this isn't the biggest interview of Jack's life.

"Yeah, well, he's your kid, no wonder you'd be on his side," Brendan says, bitterly.

"Well, let's call a spade a spade, here," Tommy says. He's still calm. "Technically, he's _not _my kid. He's my step-kid. There's no blood tie here. I love him, I'll claim him, but Jack never forgets his own father, and I respect him for that."

"They were brought up like cousins. That's _sick,_ Tommy." He turns back to Jack. "All the time we were taking vacations together, like family... and you sitting there having inappropriate thoughts about my baby girl... I'm disgusted."

Jack, stunned, has no idea what to say to this. He'd expected some pushback – he still remembers the uproar over Emily's announcement that she wanted to marry her college sweetheart – but "sick"? It's not _really,_ is it? "Unc – uh, Brendan... I can assure you that I wasn't sitting there thinking about Rosie, not like that. That would have been rude. I had special feelings for her, so I knew I _couldn't _do that." He sighs.

"I just can't… I can't accept this. I feel like you've been lyin' to me all this time," Brendan says, and Jack suddenly sees that rock-hard stubbornness at his core. How Brendan could have taken so many bruises and attacks and setbacks, and still remained true to himself; it's that spine of steel.

Tommy joins the conversation again. "Look, Bren… you're right, we did take vacation together and do holidays together as family. But I'm gonna point out to you that if there was anything weird goin' on, you woulda noticed. Don'tcha think? I mean, I think we woulda noticed if something was not right with Rosie. If she'd been messed around with."

"I don't say Jack was doin' that," Brendan says, leaning across the table again, talking to Tommy but shooting lasers through Jack with those light blue eyes. "I'm sayin' he was_ thinkin'_ about doin' it. To his _cousin_. And that goes against my grain. I don't like it."

_I knew this was going to be hard,_ Jack thinks, _but not this hard._ "I just... look, okay, yes. I want her. But it's not just that. It's that I always felt like I belonged to her. If my mom hadn't married your brother, you would have no reason – other than a personal objection of me – to disapprove. We're not related."

"It's illegal in this state," Brendan insists.

"Based on birth certificates, it's not, Un— um," Jack says gently. "That's what the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania requires to get a marriage license. My father was Michael Aaron Porter, not Tommy Conlon."

There's a little silence, and Jack's suddenly worried that he's hurt Tommy's feelings. He shifts his gaze to Tommy's face, checking. Tommy looks back. His expression is serious but still calm, and Jack begins to feel a little better.

But Brendan is still not having any of this. He goes right back to Jack, leaning menacingly across the table and saying to him, "You mean to tell me that you want my permission to screw my daughter? When you can hardly keep yourself from calling me Uncle Brendan?"

Jack can feel his face flush hot. "I want to _marry_ your daughter and live with her the rest of our lives. I want to raise a family with her and celebrate our 70th wedding anniversary and be holding her hand when I die. _Uncle_."

"_How _exactly you're going to marry her, I don't know," Brendan says. "She's always wanted a church wedding. Won't get it marryin' a Protestant."

"I started a conversation with Father Dunnevant at Holy Family about converting last week," Jack explains, not letting himself feel triumph. He's just anticipated a concern, that's all. "I'm prepared to start taking the classes in the new year. I know it will take a while, and that's okay. We can wait."

"Your mother know about that?" Tommy asks, frowning.

"Not yet. Unless Rosie told her just now."

"You're serious," Tommy says, sounding mystified. To Brendan he says, "He's serious. Stop being an overprotective dick and _listen, _okay?"

"You swear you didn't seduce her?" Brendan demands.

Jack didn't think his face could get any redder, but maybe it can. The heat is almost painful. "I swear."

"You mean to tell me you're a 28-year-old _virgin._" What's even more painful is the sneer in Brendan's voice. Jack had never anticipated that. Anger, yes. Scorn is surprising.

"Um... no. But I will swear on a stack of Bibles, if you like, that I have not touched Rosie in any inappropriate fashion. I've kissed her, I've hugged her, I've held her hand. But that's all. We made a pact not to do anything that we would regret."

Brendan lets out a frustrated, explosive sigh, and gets up from the table. "Goddamn it. She's too young for this. I need a drink."

_She's twenty-four,_ Jack thinks. Emily was the same age when she got married. He looks over at Tommy, who still has a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Whiskey, Tom? No, you don't, I forgot." Brendan, pulling the bottle of Bushmills out of the cabinet, reaches for a short glass.

"You know, I think I will. A short one, okay? No more than that, it'll knock me on my ass." Tommy eyes his stepson judiciously. "Get Jack one too, he looks like he could use one."

Brendan comes back to the table with three glasses and the bottle. "Ice?" he barks.

"Not for me," Tommy says. "Especially when you got the good stuff."

Jack shrugs. He's never drunk whiskey in his life; he doesn't even know if he likes it. Jack's father had been drunk out of his skull when he wrapped his SUV around a tree fourteen years ago, and Jack has made it a point to stop drinking the minute he feels fuzzy-headed. Which means that he's got quite the reputation among his college buddies for being a complete lightweight. That doesn't bother him. He sips very cautiously at the half-inch of whiskey in the bottom of his tumbler, watching to see how Tommy does it (inhale with eyes closed, sigh, take small drink). His eyes water a tad, and he doesn't think he can drink the whole thing – but it tastes sort of nice.

He looks up again to see Tommy's lips twitch just a little with amusement. "Boy's never had whiskey, Bren. Give 'im a break."

Uncle Brendan – no, Jack cannot keep calling him that, it _really _doesn't help – takes a heftier sip and sets his glass down with a bang, leaning forward to Jack again. "How about you give me one good reason I shouldn't just _shoot _your ass and dump you in the Schuylkill for debauching my baby girl? Because I do not believe for one minute you've never had your hands on her."

Tommy's in again, turning his head toward his brother. "Yeah, I'll give ya a couple. One, it's Christmas Eve. Two, you shoot 'im and you go to jail. Which I wouldn't mind because you're being such a dick – " he flashes one of those feral grins of his to show he's kidding – "but I'm pretty sure that would put a kink in your teaching career. Three, you ain't even talked to Rosie yet, and I don't figure she'd be in favor of it."

Brendan just looks at him, deadpan, and sips more whiskey. There is silence. Jack takes another tiny sip. It's good. It's a little like concentrated liquid spicy pecan rolls, if such a thing could kick you in the teeth.

"A'ight. Go get 'er," Brendan says, eyebrows up.

"Wasn't finished, I thought of another one. Four, the last time you stuck your big Irish nose into somebody's love life, you were way wrong. 'Member that?"

Brendan frowns. "Emily?"

"Nope. You stayed outta that one. You only bitched in private, and mostly because you were losin' Daddy's Princess."

"You mean Frank then? I was just worried 'cause he hadn't known Troy very long."

"No, I mean me and Kelly." Tommy gives his brother that do-not-mess-with-me smile again. "You gave me sheer hell about it. I haven't forgotten, even if you did say you were wrong and stood up with me at the wedding."

"Really?" Jack can't stop himself asking. He doesn't remember this.

"Yes, really," Uncle Brendan says, annoyed, "and looks like _somebody's_ still bitter about it."

"I hold grudges," Tommy says, unconcerned. "So sue me. Nobody ever accused me of bein' civilized."

"You sayin' you're gonna hold a grudge against me for lookin' out for my kid? That's fucked up, Tommy."

"I'm sayin' that your baby girl is twenty-four years old, and she could very well run off and get married if she wanted to. Instead, she wants your blessing. So I damn well think you oughta talk to her before you make threats against my wife's kid. Who is, by the way, a very good kid." Tommy holds his glass up to Brendan and takes another sip.

"So you're _for_ this?"

"I'm for not tellin' grown children what to do." Tommy scoots his chair back. "I'm gonna go get Rosie and Tess."

"We're here," Tess says, coming into the kitchen with Rosie. Kelly and Emily are behind them.

**To be continued in the following chapter. (I know, I know. I'm evil. Sorry.) **

**Is anybody really shocked? I can understand that some people might be... and at the same time, these two are really not related by blood.  
**


	17. Chapter 17: Cheers, Part 2

**FDTR: Cheers, Part II**

**Sorry for delay, y'all… been sickly. That cold I had over Christmas? Came BACK. With a vengeance. ****Also, it has been extremely cold here. And kids are out of school. And arguments with spouse. Anyway: here it is, and muchas smooches.**

Jack, in the middle of this interrogation, is glad to see the women enter the room. Just about anything would be an improvement over Uncle Brendan (no, he's got to stop thinking of Rosie's dad that way, it just points up the general weirdness of the situation) and his rabid fatherly defense. Honestly, while Brendan has always been super-protective of his womenfolk, his recent nasty behavior is over the top even for him. Jack had once seen Brendan reduce one of Rosie's boyfriends to pale, apologetic, stammering fright when the kid had shown up to pick Rosie up and honked the horn from the driveway instead of coming up to the front door and knocking. "We're not runnin' a drive-through here," Brendan had stalked up to the kid's open window and snapped into it. "You want to take my daughter out, you remember she's doin' _you _the favor. Not the other way around."

This, Jack reflects, has been worse. And while it's nice to see Tommy on Jack's side and being the rational one for once, Jack knows very well that if it were Tommy's daughter's love life under discussion, he'd be different. Tommy would likely be just as much of a Bulldog Dad, but with Marine language into the bargain. Jack knows _for a fact_ that Tommy threatened Mary Kate's first date with Death by Commando and a quick burial in the Allegheny River, should the hapless teenager overstep any bounds.

First into the room is Mom, and she's pretty calm. So's Emily, which makes Jack feel a little better. Miss Tess (Jack and Martin's early title for her, and one that still pops up in his head) is looking wary but a good bit more open-minded than her husband, so that's a good thing. And Rosie herself –

_Ah, Rosie._ Jack can't help the way his heart lifts to see her, even as subdued as she seems at the moment. _My butterfly girl, my splash of bright color, my sparkle…_ She looks at him, and that inner happiness glows through her serious expression. Funny how it feels like she's holding him up, even from across the room. _My Rosie, worth the wait._

"Wow," Tess says. "Can't believe I missed that before."

"Missed what, Mom?" Emily asks.

"The way these two look at each other," Tess says, and while it's clear she's not exactly welcoming the new arrangement with cheers and confetti, at least she doesn't want to cause Jack bodily harm.

"Oh, not you _too_," Brendan snarls, and Tess' eyebrows go up.

"Dial it back, babe. This is Jack we're talking about," she says.

"Exactly. That's exactly what's upsetting me," he snaps back.

Jack, still falling into his Rosie's eyes from twelve feet away, can manage to keep up with the discussion, even if he can't add to it. Apparently she can, though. "Daddy, please tell me you haven't been in here savaging poor Jack for no good reason."

"I got reasons," Brendan says, but his voice has changed. It's less confident.

"Babe," Tess says to him, "let's go have a talk in private. Come on, upstairs." She reaches out for his arm and tows him behind her, leaving the rest of the group in the kitchen, nonplussed.

"Well, now what?" Rosie asks the room, palms up.

Jack sighs. "We let them talk." He wants to kiss her, and yet he doesn't want to do that in front of everyone else. It must show, though, because Mom and Tommy exchange glances, and then Rosie comes to him, to stand near his chair. He pulls out the chair next to him for her, and she gives him her hand as she sits. He can't help smiling at her, because she is herself, all bouncy curls and pink cheeks and shining eyes. He's not ready to celebrate until Rosie's dad has come around, but the bottom of his heart is preparing itself for it, setting up the fireworks in rows and making sure that the balloons are ready to be blown up.

"It will be all right," Rosie says to him. He nods. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mom and Tommy look at each other again, but this time the glance says very little about him and a lot about that twenty years of (happy) marriage. It's an _I love you_ glance, and Jack's remembering Tommy saying Brendan hadn't been in favor of their relationship either, at first. He feels his shoulders going down as the tension relaxes.

It will be all right. Rosie says so.

* * *

Upstairs, Brendan is pacing around the bedroom. "I just can't… I can't wrap my head around this, that my baby girl is choosing to take up with her cousin."

Tess, standing still near the door, sighs. "He's not technically her cousin, you know. You know there's no family relationship except by marriage, and there's no legal impediment. I'm a little…" she sighs again, waving her hands around as she tries to find a word, "disconcerted too. Mostly because I didn't understand that it wasn't just a little-kid crush. I keep thinking, 'How did I miss it?' Because now I don't know how I didn't see it. Both of them, they're lit up like… like those signal fires in Lord of the Rings. All along the mountain, you know? Just _blazing_ with happiness."

"I just… I can't shake the idea that he's been messing with her head like some Svengali – "

"Who's Svengali?" Tess interrupts.

"Never mind. Like Jack has been, I don't know, grooming her for this since she was a little kid. Like he's some sort of master _sex plotter_."

"I think we'd have seen it if there had been anything creepy going on," Tess says. "I admit, I was taken aback at first. But it's not so weird, really. It's always been real clear who Jack's dad is, and it's not Tommy. And Rosie is not the kind of girl to keep her mouth shut about anything hurtful to her."

"Well, no," Brendan admits. The kind of girl Rosie is does not keep her mouth shut about much at all. He sighs. "Tommy made the point that the last time I expressed misgivings about anybody's love life, I was wrong."

"Oh, with Em and Dustin?" Tess remembers. It hadn't been a shock at all; Emily had been dating Dustin, and only Dustin, for three years by the time they announced their engagement. But Brendan had stomped around for a good two weeks, muttering about ingrates and daughters who leave their fathers and people being too young to get married.

"No," Brendan says, rubbing his forehead.

"Oh, you mean with Frank and Troy." Brendan had completely discounted Frank's glow to warn him about new acquaintances being swept away with Frank's minor celebrity and decent income.

"_No_," Brendan snaps. "God, you gotta chew my ass about it too?"

"Well, you weren't very nice about it. Poor Frank just wanted to share his happiness, and you got all 'Watch out for people you don't know very well.' It took you a while to warm up to Troy."

Brendan shrugs a little. "I like him. I just didn't know him then, and it sort of came out of the blue."

"Yeah, people have_ got_ to learn to consult you _before_ they do stupid things with their love lives," Tess gibes gently, and then comes to hug him. "Because you know best, right? You knew enough about Tommy's state of mind to warn him off Kelly, too, but they went and fell dizzy-down in love with each other without your permission, and look how _that_ turned out."

Finally he gives her a little snort of laughter. "Yeah, that was Tommy's point – that twenty years ago, I was wrong. Nothin' like your baby brother pointing out your shortcomings to make you feel six inches tall."

"You were wrong. That time." Tess pulls his head down and kisses him. "You know, my dad wasn't all that crazy about_ you_ either, back when we told him we were getting married. I mean, he liked you, but he thought your family background, what with your dad's alcoholism and the, you know, the abuse - that was a worry factor. Also he thought we were too young and didn't have enough education to make it on our own. And we _did_ have trouble making it financially, so he was right about that part. I think most fathers who love their daughters want to make sure that they wind up with partners who will take care of them, but they forget that love, just plain old _love,_ counts for more in their daughters' eyes than just about anything else does. And babe? I wouldn't give up those early years with you for anything. Not anything. All those years of scraping by, they just made me love you more. You know that, don't you? Because it was you and me against the world, and you would be damned if the world got in between us. God, Brendan, I just love you so much… and Rosie loves Jack the same way. When you calm down and look at her, you'll see it."

"No, I can see it," Brendan admits. "I saw it when she came into the kitchen just now. And she's impulsive, our girl, but she also knows exactly what she wants. I mean, her impulse is nearly always to be generous, to be kind and open, to say more than would be wise… it's not to grab for stuff that's not worthwhile. No, it's not like she met some hot drug dealer and decided thirty minutes later that he's the one. She generally has good judgment about people, I get that."

"I'm beginning to realize that Jack has loved her for a long time, from a distance, in that careful way of his. He seems to have been totally above board about it. So don't you dare get in the way of a love like that for our Rosie," Tess says, holding him close and feeling his heart beat against her chest.

There's a little silence, while Brendan's arms fit around her and his chin rests on her head. He's probably thinking a lot of the same things she is – about how crazy they'd been for each other right away, and yet how necessary it was to them to have things be right. To be married, to be official and exclusive and solid, to have that as their goal. To know beyond doubt that this was _it._ About how right it's been for more than thirty years now, and how lucky they are to have had all this time together.

He kisses her forehead. "Okay."

"Okay, _what?_"

"Okay, I'll shut up. I'll keep my mouth shut about my doubts. Rosie's a grown woman now, and she gets to decide."

"I don't think that's enough," Tess says. "I mean, I still think it would be good for them to be engaged for at least several months and not rush the wedding. Sounds like they were talking about a long engagement, and that suits me fine. I'd like for Jack to convert. But speaking of Tommy and Kelly, remember how the priest, I mean the minister, at their wedding wanted everyone to pledge their support to the marriage? I think we have to do that too, if they're going to make it. They can't be worried about us worrying about them."

There's another little silence. "Okay, babe. I'll support Rosie's choice. He does anything to hurt her during this engagement thing, and I'll take him _out…_ but you're right, this is Jack. We know Jack, and he doesn't have a mean or untruthful bone in his body. I'm just… I need to get used to it."

"Yeah, you do." She reaches up to kiss him again, loving the solid way his body feels against hers. "And I think you will. Because above all, you want her to be happy."

"I want her to be happy," he agrees, and the worry lines in his forehead have relaxed. "I do." He looks over her shoulder at the clock. "You know, if we're gonna make it to Midnight Mass, we'd better get the troops movin' soon. So let's go down and I'll apologize for flying off the handle, and we'll… just… have a nice normal Christmas Eve." He shakes his head, like he's psyching himself up to go into the cage to face some huge bruiser.

"I suspect that everybody will be relieved," Tess says, and he nods. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her very thoroughly.

"I love you, Mrs. Conlon. Now let's get this show on the road, okay?" He holds her hand on the way back downstairs, and doesn't let go of it even when they're back in the kitchen with everyone else, the group from the basement TV room having come upstairs to put on coats and get ready to leave for church. When they walk into the kitchen, every pair of eyes is on them immediately, and Brendan, who's no stranger to directing a roomful of people, makes use of their attention. "Okay, listen up: Jack, first I have apologize to you. I just accused you of all kinds of reckless behavior which I know is not like you, and I'm sorry. I don't have any excuse other than loving my daughter to a ridiculous degree. But she's an adult, and she gets to make her own choices, and she usually makes good ones, and I think I have to just trust that this is another good one. So. Rosie, honey, I'm sorry we didn't react well, but we're with you now. We are onboard with the engagement, and we want you to know that you have our support."

"Thank you, Daddy," Rosie says, and practically leaps across the kitchen to hug him and then her mother. She is lit up with joy, even more so than usual, and she has tears of happiness in her eyes. "I love you, Mom."

"Love you too," Tess whispers into her younger daughter's curly mop, hugging her tight. "We just want you to be happy."

Jack comes to shake Brendan's hand, but Brendan pulls him into a back-thumping embrace instead. "I overreacted. I'm sorry," Brendan says. "You gonna shrink me for flippin' out on you?"

Jack laughs. "No, we sprung it on you, and I'm sorry about that."

"My fault," Rosie says, sniffling a little from her mother's arms.

"It's okay," Brendan says, letting go of Jack. "A lot of what I said, I didn't mean. I hope you know that."

Jack reassures him that it's okay, and then he looks at Rosie head-on. "So. I still don't have a ring because I thought you'd like to pick it out. And I was going to do this all romantic and stuff, with dinner and maybe dancing. But shall we do this now anyway, now that everybody knows? I don't want anything secret or sneaky or hole-in-corner. I want it honest and pure and truthful. So, Mary Rose Conlon…" he gets down on one knee, there on the kitchen floor, and goes on, "I have loved you practically my whole life. And I want to spend the rest of it with you. Will you marry me?"

Tears spring into Tess' eyes. _Love like this. Yes. _

Tears are in her daughter's eyes too, but Rosie, with a huge smile under the tears she's wiping away, nods. "I have loved you practically my entire life, too, John Tipton Porter. And that's romantic enough for me. So – yes. Yes, I will marry you."

She pulls Jack up to his feet, and there in front of their whole family, he kisses her. Very sweetly and innocently, but with a tenderness that makes Brendan reach for Tess' hand and squeeze it. There are sighs and quiet cheers, and some happy laughter, and Tommy is wiping tears from his wife's face, and it feels like a celebration. This is Christmas Eve, Tess thinks, the reconciliation of humans to the God that made them, and surely this kind of love – the kind that can wait years and suffer insult and suspicion and last for years after – pleases God very much.

The Mass is beautiful, and Tess's heart is full, looking at the family all sitting together. Emily and Dustin holding hands, Mary Kate sitting between Patrick and Ryan, Tommy's head over on top of Kelly's, Jack and Rosie holding hands and smiling into each other's eyes from time to time… it's all so wonderful. And Brendan – such a joy to be sitting here with her husband of almost 35 years. She squeezes his hand, and he looks at her. "I love you," she whispers, and he whispers it back, and Tess's full heart overflows with love and gratitude.

* * *

Tommy catches up with Jack after Mass, pulling him off to the side a little ways from everyone else. "So… you're gonna be Catholic, huh?"

Jack just looks at him and smiles, and there is so much happiness in his face that Tommy feels warm in spite of the cold. "It's the same God," he says. "What, you think Mom'll pitch a fit?"

Tommy shakes his head. No, it's that he feels somewhat guilty about not having raised his kids Catholic, even though he decided a long time ago it wasn't for him personally, and here's Kelly's kid preparing to convert. It's just… it's kind of funny, that's all. "Nope. She seems fine."

Jack nods. But all the same, there's a look on his face that Tommy recognizes, a feeling he remembers: wanting the people he looks up to on his side when it comes to his life choices. Like picking a wife. Jack wants Tommy's approval too. Well, he's got it. He's got so much of that that Tommy would really rather not get into the whole "support" thing right now because it's likely to turn emotional. But Jack, like his mother, needs to hear the words, so Tommy puts his hand on Jack's shoulder and says them. "Can't say I saw this coming – we just thought it was this little leftover crush thing. But you picked a good one, man. And so did she. So… just, you know… just love each other. That's all. Love each other even when it's hard, because that's what you're signing up for."

Jack nods again, and pulls Tommy in for a hug. "Thanks," he whispers into Tommy's ear. "That means a lot. Because, you know, I've been watching you love my mom for a long time now. Thanks for showing me what that looks like."

Well, damn if it didn't get emotional anyway. "I'm proud a' you," Tommy tells his stepson. "So proud. And don't worry about my brother, he'll settle down."

"I know," Jack says, and his voice is soft and choky the way Tommy's is. When they let go of each other, Kelly is standing there with a warm loving smile for both of them, and Tommy knows for sure that everything is going to be okay.

By the time they're back at Brendan's house, Tommy has started to wish that he'd made hotel reservations for Kelly and himself. Sure, they've got the guest bedroom, the one that used to be "his" when he lived here, but it's not particularly private. On the other hand, there wouldn't be a tree for him to kiss his wife near at a hotel, not the way he kisses her on Christmas Eve. So maybe it's a wash. And it will be nice to have everyone here in the morning, too.

Still. It's getting late, and people are still clustered around the Christmas tree in the living room, nobody having gone to bed yet although it's nearly two in the morning. He leans over and whispers to Kelly, "Looks like we're not gonna get any privacy… you want your kisses now, or you wanna sneak back in here later?"

She laughs. "We don't have to have a tree, Tommy. We can go to bed."

Screw this. It's just kissing, the afterward can wait until they go to bed. "I don't care if people are watching, it's Christmas Eve and I'm gonna kiss you now. All the years we been married, the only time we missed doin' this was that time you couldn't get off work Christmas Eve so we had to wait for the next day. I ain't doin' that again. This is too special. So they can just suck it." And he holds his wife's face in his hands, and he kisses her. Softly, tenderly, with all the sweetness of twenty years of love and tradition.

When he pulls back, the room is quiet, except for his daughter saying, "_Daddy,_" in her appalled-and-exasperated voice.

Then his brother says, "_Dude_. Get a room, everybody is watching you."

But Kelly's eyes are shining, so he says, "No. This is the present I give my wife every year, and this is twenty, and it's too important to miss. You guys go away." And he kisses her again, with the same melting sweetness, her hand fisted up in his shirt and her lips soft under his. "Merry Christmas, baby," he says.

"Merry Christmas, love," she whispers back, tears trembling on her lashes and her mouth curving in a trembling smile.

"No wonder you always make us go to bed early," Ryan says, and Jack laughs. So does Tess.

"Fine, this time _we'll_ go to bed early," Tommy says, and only after he says it does he actually hear how it sounds. Which, to tell the truth, is exactly how it is: yeah, so he's taking his wife to bed. So what? Everybody here is over 18 except Ryan, and Tommy knows he's caught up because he talked to Ryan about sex ages ago. He and Kelly are married, married people have sex, nobody should be surprised. There's a collective gasp anyway, Mary Kate's eyes getting huge, and because it's a little embarrassing he adds, "Well, how the hell do you think you and your brother got here, anyway, Monkey? It's because of this, so you should be glad I still kiss your mama."

Mary Kate rolls her eyes. But she smiles.

"I think we should _all_ go to bed," Tess says diplomatically. "It's late. Kelly and I are making cinnamon rolls in the morning, so you want to be up for that. Mary Kate, you're in with Rosie, and Ryan, you're in Patrick's room. You and Patrick can fight over who gets the sleeping bag. Jack, you're on the basement sofa, and I put blankets and an extra pillow down there for you. Chop-chop, let's go, people. Merry Christmas, and I love you all."

While there's a general melee of hugs, Tommy simply seizes Kelly's hand and pulls her out of the living room and through the kitchen, into the guest room. He closes the door, and locks it. "Alone at last," he says to her, and she laughs quietly. "Now. Where were we?"

"You had your beautiful decadent mouth on mine," she says. "Let's go back there."

"Deal." He sits on the bed and pulls her down next to him, sliding one hand into her hair and turning her face to his. Her lips are soft and warm, delicious, and she makes one of her appreciative noises. Christmas Eve kisses… funny how much this matters, even after the anniversary. He settles in, kissing her over and over, the unspoken agreement the same as from the beginning, to kiss without expectations of more until it's unbearable not to move on.

"I love the way you still kiss me like this," she says, right into his mouth, and that does it, he's rock-hard. Time to move on.

"I love the way you kiss me back, baby," he tells her, and slides two fingers under the edge of her sweater.

"I love that you still call me baby," she says, and her hands move to the buttons of his shirt.

"I love the way you moan," he says, kissing along her jaw to her ear. "I love how you beg for more. I love the way you say my name when I'm balls-deep inside you." He sucks her earlobe into his mouth, stroking it with his tongue, and she makes another one of her noises down in her throat. Oh yes. "I love how you wrap your legs around me and hold me close."

"Oh _God_, Tommy," she gasps as his hand reaches her breasts, still full and lovely, nipples pointed with desire even through her bra. She unbuttons his last shirt button and slides her hands inside his shirt. He shrugs it off his shoulders, while she unbuckles his belt, and the rest of their clothes come off in between kisses and caresses. She's so beautiful. No, she doesn't look like a teenager anymore, but she is shapely and rounded and _all his,_ and his mouth on her nipples still makes her moan and writhe on the bed. She's got her hands in her hair, and she's saying things like, "You're so good at that," and "I love you," and moaning again, and the whole deal, the kissing and the affection and the naked, it's all making him crazy to be inside her.

"Baby," he says, and kisses down to her center, already slick with heat and moisture. She muffles her noises in the pillow, and he is beyond rock-hard now, wanting her so badly but wanting her to find her pleasure too. She does, her hips moving and her whole body shuddering with the force of it.

He's moving to between her legs when her noises get coherent again. "No, not yet – let me. Please. Please let me." Let her what, he wonders, but then she rises on her knees and pushes him onto his back, stroking his cock and then enveloping it in her mouth, using her hand and mouth and lips and tongue all at once, and his head falls back onto the pillow like his neck just broke, _oh Jesus_ that's so good. And then, without warning, while he's still brainless with the incredible goodness of it, she straddles him and sinks right down onto his cock, riding him firm and sure. He manages to hold on until just before she comes; he can tell she's going to. Twenty years, and he know what it looks like and feels like when she's about to lose her shit – her head tilted back, mouth open, her breasts bouncing, and those moans. Always with the noise… which is good. He still loves that, and it's the sight and sound and feel of her coming again that kicks him over the edge, his hands tight on her hips and his back arched up off the bed with _yes baby yes._

After she has flopped back down onto the bed beside him, he turns his head to kiss her. "I love it that I can make you come your brains out."

"Oh yeah? Well, I love it that you can make me come my brains out too," she says, panting a little.

"Good. Because when I calm down a little, I wanna go again." He thinks about time, about getting older. So what if he can't do it fourteen times in a row anymore? Kelly doesn't seem to mind. "Man, you were pretty wound up for not having a lot of foreplay."

"There was plenty of foreplay, you dumbass," she says, sounding exasperated, but running her finger across his eyebrows, smoothing them the way she does when she's pleased. "Of course it got to me. And also... I feel so lucky. Twenty years, with you."

He gathers her into his arms. "Way I figure it, we're both lucky. Love you so much, baby."

"Another twenty years," she whispers. "Another fifty, please God."

May it be so, amen and amen.

**A/N: Just a few chapters left on this one, I think. This probably should have been the last one, but I have at least three in the can and I just couldn't leave the last chapter so unfinished. We'll see. Thanks for hanging in there with me.**


	18. Chapter 18: The End of the World

**FDTR: The End of the World as We Know It**

**Fluff. **_**Because**_**. **

**Just in case you missed the 80s, the chapter title is taken from one of the few intelligible lyrics REM ever wrote: "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine." BTW, I've heard from a couple of you that these latest chapters have been all Tommy-focused… um, yeah, they have. I'll try to shift the focus back to Kelly some, but let's be honest here, Tommy's where the drama usually is. Such an **_**intense**_** dude.**

"What on earth are you muttering to yourself over there?" Kelly asks from the passenger seat, and Tommy spares her half a glance, just to make sure she's okay. He's still got four blocks to go; there's no traffic to speak of at 4:30 am, but the stoplights are functioning as normal and he really has to pay attention to those, at least.

He briefly considers putting her off, but there's no point in that. Kelly can be nosy with him, so she'll find out eventually. "Prayers." He doesn't have Mom's rosary on him, but he said those prayers often enough with Mom, saying them out loud for her when she didn't have enough breath and kept getting lost in the count as the pain bore down hard on her. He knows them all. Mom said the Glorious Mysteries most often, the ones about heaven, but right now the Joyful ones seem most appropriate. He's been praying since he woke up, actually, trying to keep track of where he is on the rosary but it's tough with how distracted he is at the moment.

"Oh good," Kelly says, and then out of the corner of his eye he can see her lean forward just a little. He can hear her breathing through her nose, slow and deep, and it sounds like she's doing okay but what does he know? He's never done this before.

He's never been a dad before.

Sure, he likes being a dad-type-person to Jack and Martin. Most of the time, anyway, even if sometimes it's like trying to push rocks uphill. And it's probably easier because their actual father is in jail right now instead of filling up their little-kid heads with poisonous crap. But Tommy's never done _this_ before, tried to be a parent to a baby, and if he's honest – well, it's scaring him pretty much shitless right now. Thus the rosary prayers. _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you…_

When Kelly had woken him up about half an hour ago, he'd reverted instantaneously to Deployed Staff Sergeant mode, jumping out of bed and right into his clothes. Over the past month he's developed the habit of laying out fresh clothes for the morning so he wouldn't wake her too early, and the pile of clean boxers, undershirt, socks, trackies, and long-sleeve tee was handy right there. "You're in labor? Should I call the doctor?" he'd demanded to know. "Mrs. Hirschbein? Pop?" She hadn't answered right away, she'd been sitting up in bed curled around her belly, just breathing audibly, and the NCO living in his brain had goosed him to open his mouth and demand a response. "_Tell me._"

She'd gone right on breathing in that steady way for another thirty seconds before raising her head and giving him a faint, Mona Lisa smile. "Stand down, Sergeant, it's not an emergency. Contractions still about six and a half minutes apart, but I want you to go eat some breakfast. It's likely to take a good part of the day and you need some fuel."

His heart rate had slowed a little. "Oh. Okay. You okay, you all right at the moment? Can I - can I help?"

"Yeah, feed yourself." She'd smiled at him. "_Finally_ this baby has decided to arrive."

"You want somethin'? You need fuel too."

"Nope. I might drink a little apple juice and eat a peanut butter cracker, but that ought to do me." She'd sounded so calm. "I'll get dressed while you make some eggs or something. And yes, call Nancy."

"If your suitcase is ready to go I'll take it down," he'd said, taking her hand and pulling her out of bed. God, she's huge. All belly and breasts, and that baby had better not be as big as it looks from the outside, or it'll tear her in two, coming out. "I'll make up the bed first. Go." She'd smiled and patted his arm, walking to the bathroom in her pink cotton nightgown. He'd thought, right then, _This is the end of the way we've been together. This is the beginning of something new._

Thank God for Mrs. Hirschbein, though – their across-the-street neighbor, the older lady out walking her poodles, the one he'd first met when he first saw this house. She misses her own grandkids and seems happy to fill her time with Jack and Martin. Just last week she'd offered to come stay at the house with the boys when Kelly went into labor. "Even in the middle of the night, you call me. Babies are no respecters of working hours. Or of sleep."

He'd made the phone calls: the birthing center at the hospital, Mrs. Hirschbein, Pop. By the time Kelly was dressed and downstairs, Tommy had cooked and eaten eggs, taken her suitcase out to the car and covered the Charger's passenger seat with first a plastic trash bag and then a towel, wanting to take no chances with her water breaking on the car seat.

And now here they are, two blocks from the hospital, St. Jude's, the one where she works. She'd started her maternity leave four days ago, on the baby's due date. All the way through she's been assuring him that she feels fine, there are no problems, no high blood pressure like she'd had with Martin, nothing bad. All the same, he's nervous. _Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus…_

"You're not nervous, are ya?" he asks her. Just curious, is all. She doesn't seem nervous.

"Nope. Maybe a little excited. Can't wait to meet this baby," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice even though he's too jumpy to take his eyes off the road. There are stripes of light passing through the car with every streetlight they pass under. "It's funny, you know… right now this baby could be anything, absolutely anything. Boy or girl. Big, little… who knows what it'll look like."

"God help us if it looks like Pop," he jokes. _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen._

She snorts and smacks him gently on the arm. "Stop, I'm being all mystical. And who knows whether it will be athletic or musical or a genius or just happy… I mean, this kid could be anything."

"Not black. Or Asian." _Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning…_

She snorts again. "Tommy. Be nice."

"I'm too fucking nervous to be nice." _… is now and ever shall be, world without end, amen._ "I hope it looks like you."

"I hope it looks like both of us." He stops at the last stoplight before the turn into the ER parking lot. "Hey. Tell me," she says, suddenly serious, "would you rather have a boy or a girl? I mean, it's already done, and we can't send it back, but if you could choose, which would you?"

He's been thinking about it ever since they found out she was pregnant. Some days the grass on one side of the fence looks perfect, and then some days the other side does, but most of the time they both look great. But if he's honest? "Boy. But only if we can have a girl next. I don't have to worry about stupid shit like carrying on the family name, not since Brendan and Tess had Patrick last summer – I guess it's just wanting to have something in common with your own kid." The light finally turns green, and he pulls up to the ER entrance. "Not a huge deal or anything. You stay there, I'll go get you a nurse with a wheelchair." He hops out, hearing her window go down behind him.

"I can walk, Tommy," she calls out the window. "I'm not wounded, I'm just in labor."

He turns around quick, walking backwards, and points at her. "You stay _put_. You ain't trippin' over your toes and fallin' down on_ my_ watch, pregnant lady." She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but he can see the gleam of her teeth as she smiles and sits back in the seat. He checks in at the desk, handing in Kelly's pre-printed admittance paperwork, and since it's pretty quiet – only two people sitting in the ER waiting room, and no howls or noises coming from the ER suite – they're able to send a nurse out with a wheelchair right away.

After that, things get sort of blurred for several hours. The nurses in the OB department change shifts at 6am, and Kelly seems to know at least two of the three that float in and out of the room, checking on her. She banters back and forth with Debbie, an older nurse with calm blue eyes and a Farrah Fawcett haircut. The doctor comes in about half past eight, and Tommy is glad to see that it's Dr. Goodnight who's on call at the hospital today. Dr. Goodnight is young and lively, but he's got a core of good sense and a way of talking straight at you without talking down, and Tommy likes him. The other two doctors in the practice are okay, but there's just something confident and kind about Dr. Goodnight. He comes in, checks Kelly out, says things seem to be progressing just fine, and that he'll check back in as she gets closer to delivering.

Kelly, as he might have expected, starts losing her cool as time goes on. She asks if she can walk around, and is denied. Apparently since she had a c-section with Martin, they're loath to let her go without a monitor on the baby. Kelly glares, but stops complaining about being stuck in the bed. At some point, a younger nurse comes in and says she's going to check Kelly for dilation. (Dilation, is that right? He can't keep up with this shit.) She gloves up and starts to reach for Kelly's thigh. Kelly, red-faced, screeches, "Not while I'm having a contraction, you're not!"

He's been giving her ice chips and wiping her face with a cool cloth, holding her hands, all morning. Which is okay. It's not like with Mom, when she couldn't breathe and he was terrified. Then when he sees blood on the sheets, his own stress levels shoot up. "Um, nurse," he says, and points, not wanting to discuss it in front of Kelly. He breathes deep, trying to keep the picture of Mom's bloody lips out of his brain_. It's fine it's fine we're in the hospital there are doctors all over the place she's gonna be fine it's just a little bit of blood they'll take care of it it's fine. Our Father, who art in Heaven…_

"That's just a little bloody show," the nurse says. "That's normal."

"For God's sake, Tommy, I'm not gonna die," Kelly says, exasperated but calm enough to explain. "It's just the small blood vessels bursting from pressure, it's not like a hemorrhage. A pregnant person has about 50% more blood than a non-pregnant person of the same size."

But she's gradually getting snappier, and when Debbie comes to check her progress Tommy's got his hands on Kelly's shoulders and he can feel the tension in them. He starts to massage them, "Goddammit, leave me alone," Kelly snaps, and bursts into tears. "I can't do this, I can't do it! I'm tired! It hurts!"

"You can do this," he reminds her. "You're strong. You're healthy. And I'm here with you."

"Eight centimeters," Debbie says encouragingly. "You're in transition. You're almost there."

"Son of a _bitch,_ I got two more to go," Kelly says, and her accent has thickened up. "I want an epidural. I want _drugs,_ dammit."

Debbie meets Tommy's eyes over Kelly's head, and she's trying not to laugh. "You know you can't have anything now, honey," Debbie says, sympathetically. "I know it hurts. Think about something else, take your mind off. Dad, maybe you'd rub her back."

"Yep," Tommy says. Kelly rolls to her side and he massages her shoulders, then down low on her back, pressing hard.

"Harder," she grits out between her teeth, so he has a go at that, putting his back into it. He's tired now too from the lack of sleep and the tension, and he's starting to get hungry. It's a good thing she made him eat earlier.

She's whiny like this over the next twenty minutes, and it's starting to freak him out even though he keeps encouraging her. She cries, threatens to throw up, does throw up, cries some more, asks what he's going to do if she dies – which does not fucking help him at all, given that the possibility of losing her, though small, is real. _God, please no._ What would he do? He'd keep on, of course. Take care of the boys, of course. But he does not want to do it without her.

He holds the bag for her to throw up, wipes her mouth afterward, wipes her forehead. Gives her ice chips. Tells her she's still doing fine. Massages her back some more, and then her hands, and then her head. And he never stops praying.

Anything to help, because this whole labor thing _sucks_. It's a dizzying combination of apprehension, guilt that she's having to go through this effort and pain, relief that _he's_ not the one going through effort and pain, mind-numbing boredom because nothing much seems to have happened over the past four hours, worry that it's going to get worse, and frustratingly bad intel, because the only one who has any idea what's going on is Kelly's body. It is, in fact, not a million miles away from the feeling of battle anticipation. That thought causes him to redouble his efforts at prayer – he does _not_ need such reminders at a time like this, he does _not _need to flake out on her when she's doing all the work.

Kelly has started to make some noise, a deep grunt to her breathing, and now he knows why they call it _labor_ – it's hard work.

When he can't do any more with her back because his hands need a break, Debbie checks her again. "Congrats, sweetie, you're ready to push."

"Congrats?" Kelly says, sounding outraged. "Oh yay, more work! Congratulations, you just won this _boulder,_ go ahead and push it home."

"Well, you want this baby, right?" Debbie asks, refreshing the cup of ice. "You can go ahead and push now. I'm paging Dr. Goodnight to come have a look."

"Screw Dr. Goodnight," Kelly says through clenched teeth, "_Unnnnngh_. I want this baby _out_. I want it out _now_."

"That's up to you," Debbie tells her firmly. "Relax your bottom and push when you feel it."

"I'll goddamn well push when I feel it," Kelly retorts. "I'm fucking _sick_ of being pregnant." Then she smacks Tommy on the arm. "Quit laughin'. I got better things to do than listen to you snicker, when it was _you _got me into this."

"You had nothin' to do with it, huh?" he says to her, warm memories of making this baby in his mind.

"You know what I mean," she says, relaxing as the contraction passes and actually giving him a smile. He offers her some ice, and she nods enthusiastically. "I'm sorry I'm bein' such a bitch, really sorry. Not your fault this is the un-fun part."

He shrugs, and smooths her hair back before kissing her sweaty forehead. "It's okay, I can take it. You're doin' real good. Love you, baby." He goes back to praying, having at this point run through the rosary silently in his head three times, partway through the fourth. Pray and take care of Kelly, it's all he can do right now. But thank God, it's all he has to do.

Dr. Goodnight comes in, checks out the situation (which would make Tommy uncomfortable, if he didn't already understand that Goodnight is the officer in charge here), and says that good progress is being made. Tommy can practically feel Kelly's body relax, and he squeezes her hand. There's a strange sense of her body having gotten down to business here, and within about ten minutes there's more blood at that end of the bed – thank goodness, he's able to sit and just look at Kelly's face now, he doesn't have to deal with it – and the nurse is saying something about "crowning."

Kelly's not talking, she's making noises of effort but they're full of purpose. She sounds like she's working out at the gym, not like she's dying. Thank God and Holy Mary. _Hail, Holy Queen, mother of mercy… _He watches her face and prays, and a few minutes later there's a burst of excitement from the medical people, "We have a head!" He kisses Kelly's cheek and turns, still holding her hand, to see the rest of the baby slide out, with a triumphant grunt of effort from Kelly, and it's as if he's turned into a giant pair of eyes. The baby is definitely, well, a baby, but it looks so _strange_ – wet and red, a squished up face, some blood and white stuff on its skin, wavy brown hair stuck to its head with wet. It looks like a red frog, and for all that he would kill any number of people to keep it safe right now. _Mine. _

"You have a little girl," Dr. Goodnight says, and as Tommy processes that, he realizes that his eyes are dry from not blinking, and his mouth is dry from hanging open. There's a flash of disappointment, followed by a much bigger feeling of joy, a swelling of pride and love and gratitude, _a little girl, thank you, Blessed Virgin_. "Dad, you want to cut the cord?" Tommy shakes his head. No, he doesn't want to risk fucking anything up. He wants this baby in its mother's arms, safe and warm and together so he can protect both of them. He needs them safe. Safe, healthy, strong, happy.

_I have a daughter…_

Later, after they've cleaned up Kelly and the baby and the medical people have left them alone in the room, Kelly is holding the baby. She's wrapped up in a blanket and she has a hat on, so that the only thing you can really see is her face, pink and wearing an expression of indignant how-dare-you. Her eyes are open, and she's looking at her mother's face, very sternly. Kelly is clearly exhausted, her eyes puffy with effort and lack of sleep, and at the same time she looks very pleased with herself. She's whispering sweet things to the baby, touching the baby's cheek, with the softest look on her face. The sight of them, mother and daughter, is without question the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his entire fucking _life_, and he's remembering Manny, in one of their earlier deployments, right after Maria was born Stateside. Manny, closing the Skype application on the laptop, wiping tears from his eyes and saying the same thing, so overwhelmed he was saying it in Spanish. _La cosa m__á__s hermosa… mi hija y mi esposa._

Kelly looks up at him and smiles. "Are you in there?" she asks softly. He nods. "You haven't said a word since you said 'mine,' earlier, right when she was born."

It startles him. "I said that?"

"You did." Her lips twitch, as if she wants to laugh but she's holding it in. "I love you. Do you want to hold her?"

He nods again, settling on the bed beside her and kissing her tenderly. He knows to support the baby's head; he made sure to practice holding his nephew Patrick, in preparation for this day. Kelly transfers the warm bundle to his arms, and then he's staring into his daughter's eyes. Hers are wide and serious, deeply and endlessly blue, and for some reason his chest hurts. "Tell her her name," Kelly says, softly.

"Mary Katherine," he says to his baby girl, in the gentlest voice he can manage. "Hi, Mary Kate, sweetheart. Hi."

**A/N: Dedicated to Dr. Bill Goodnight, who delivered my second baby, sweet Gaze, after a number of complications, via c-section. He now works at UNC Medical Center, where he specializes in treating high-risk pregnancies. Also dedicated to my mom – for a ton of reasons, but mainly because years ago she woke my dad up in the middle of a January snowstorm to take her to the hospital. Thirty hours later, there was me. Thanks, Mom. I love you.**


	19. Chapter 19: Stars

**FDTR: Stars **

**Set the first summer after the events of TLRH. Also, I confess that after I said "only three more chapters" I came up with two more that HAVE to be done. This was one of them. SO. Four more. **

It had been darkish and rainy this evening when they drove through town and up to Kelly's sister's house. And yeah, literally, _up_ – up the mountain on a twisty switchback road that had Martin complaining that he felt like he was going to throw up. "Well, try not to," Kelly had said. "I'll slow down a li'l bit. If you think you're gone vomit, holler and I'll pull over." Ever since they'd left the house after lunch, Kelly's accent and her vocabulary have been slipping farther and farther into Appalachia. Tommy would find it funny, except that he remembers getting picked on some in high school, in Tacoma, for his own Pittsburghese.

Besides, he likes the sound of it. It's one of the things he liked about her right away, the unselfconscious swoop and twang of the way she talked.

And here in the Browns' crowded farmhouse partway up a mountain, a good two miles from town, he still likes the sound of that accent swirling around. He likes Kelly's brother-in-law Scotty, who works at the NAPA Auto Parts store in town; he likes Kelly's sister Susan, who works in the cafeteria at the high school, both of them down to earth and blunt-spoken and affectionate. He likes the bustle and chat in the house, with the Browns' teenage daughters chattering up and down the stairs, and their younger son Mason, age ten, playing Nerf guns with Jack and Martin. _Pow pow! You're dead! No I'm not I got you first!_

He likes the shy way Madison Brown is staring at the tattoos peeking out from his tee-shirt sleeves as if she'd like to poke them with her little-girl fingers. "It's just skin," he says to her, and she backs up a step, her bright brown eyes wide. "See?" He props his arm on the kitchen table and rolls his sleeve up one turn. "You can touch if you want." Madison is eight, just a year younger than Emily and Jack, and he casts around in his mind to identify the things that eight-year-old girls like. "You like bein' out of school for the summer, or are you bored?"

She shakes her head, which doesn't answer the question. He can't help it, the smile gets away from him and pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Smartypants," he says to her, teasing, and this time she grins. She's missing a couple of important teeth, same as Jack.

"I ain't bored. I help Mommy with the garden and I go help her sell thangs at the farmers' market. Sometimes I go to the liberry."

"Yeah? You like books?" Kelly's kids have their noses in books all the time. So do Tess' kids.

"You can play on the computers there."

_Oh. Well. Maybe she's athletic._ "I saw the basketball hoop outside when we came in. You play?"

"Some," Madison says, and scoots a step closer. He only barely remembers her at the wedding – mostly she was running around with the other kids, and he doesn't think he talked to her so she doesn't know him. He's not "Uncle Tommy" to her yet. "Johnny says that hoop is his and I c'n only play on it when he ain't. 'Course he took up with Holley right 'fore Christmas and he don't live here now so I thank he should let me."

"That sounds fair." Johnny he remembers; Susan and Scotty's oldest is nineteen, or maybe twenty. In any case, he's old enough to have a full-time job and get shacked up with his high school girlfriend.

Madison takes another step closer and poises one finger over the bold tribal swirl on his right arm. He nods, and she pokes at it. "It don't come off in the tub?" she asks.

"Nope. It's under the skin. They put the ink under there with a needle."

"I hate needles," Madison tells him, sliding her finger around the design. "Did it hurt?"

"Not too bad."

"I don't want one if it has to be needles." Madison makes a face.

"Supper!" Susan yells from the kitchen out into the house. "Ya'll get in here 'fore it gets cold!"

It smells _awesome:_ fried chicken, mashed potatoes, chicken gravy, some kind of cooked greens, sliced fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, corn on the cob, applesauce and biscuits. It's like KFC, but homemade and better, all kinds of stuff that Frank would have an absolute freakin' cow about Tommy eating, especially six weeks away from his second UFC fight. Tommy's just not gonna tell him about it. Kelly has promised that she would do her best to get him the kind of food he needs over these four days' worth of vacation, but she also has told him that at least once they would be eating fried chicken. ("It's, like, in the Virginia Constitution or something," she said. "It says, 'Thou shalt serve guests fried chicken with all the fixings.' You can't not eat it.") Well, his diet can absorb one fried-chicken dinner this far out from the fight. It's okay.

And seriously, it tastes like heaven. The kitchen is full of kids and at least one piece of buttered biscuit gets thrown, but Tommy levels a stern glance at the perpetrator (Martin, naturally) and that puts an end to the hijinks. And then it's like he's in a food trance, because the chicken is wonderful and the fresh tomatoes are perfect with it, and he has never in his life eaten biscuits as light as this. They're like clouds. Even Kelly's aren't this good, and up to now hers have been the best he's ever had.

Apparently Kelly's thinking about biscuits too. "Susan, I am tellin' you, I cain't git good biscuit flour in Pennsylvania. I make do with all-purpose and cake flour, but it's just not Martha White self-risin'. Your biscuits are so good."

Susan smiles at her plate. "She does make good biscuits," Scotty says, breaking open his third and reaching for the butter.

"Um-hmm," Tommy agrees with his mouth full.

Kelly laughs across the table at him. "What, is that your _fourth?_ I thought you were trying to watch your carbs. You're gone hafta run sixteen miles tomorrow."

He shrugs and finishes his bite. "Worth it."

"Well, thank you," Susan says. "Seriously, you're gone run down the mountain and go sixteen miles? Hoo." She shakes her head, eyes big.

"Prob'ly not sixteen," he says. "But yeah, I gotta run. I usually do eight."

"You ain't gone wanna run back _up_ this mountain, I can tell you that right now," Kelly says. "And you better go early, it'll be humid in the mornin'." She says to Susan, "The fried chicken is good too. I never _have_ learnt to make good fried chicken. I mean, mine's edible but it's not good."

"That's 'cause you're impatient," Susan says, and smiles at her little sister's eye roll.

"Yeah, you are," Tommy says, flashing his wife a grin, and shoving more greens in his mouth. He really should lay off the biscuits. All of a sudden, the rain outside goes from steady to downpour, rattling off the metal roof.

"Ooh," Martin says. "Sounds like cannons. Mommy, can I get down now? Can I go play?"

Kelly cranes her head to see his plate. "It's pretty much clean, except for the greens," Tommy tells her. "He ate two bites of those, I saw 'im."

"Okay, then," Kelly says, and Jack and Mason both immediately shove whatever's left on their plates and ask permission to leave the table as well. Between the bustle of cleaning up the kitchen, corralling the kids and putting them to bed, then quelling the giggles coming out of the boys' room (Jack and Martin are bunking in sleeping bags in Mason's bedroom), Kelly starts yawning. Tommy sighs to himself, unpacking their suitcase enough to find some running gear for tomorrow. He really should go run, rain or shine, but he hopes for shine. The house is big enough, barely, for all of them, but it might feel a lot more crowded if the kids can't go out to play.

When Kelly comes into the bedroom she's still yawning. She shucks off clothes and pulls on a cotton nightie with an efficiency that tells Tommy he's not getting any tonight. If he mentioned it she'd probably say something about being tired, and something about being on the other side of a thin wall from her sister. He decides not to mention it. He drove two-thirds of the six-hour trip, letting her take the wheel from Charleston, WV, south, and he's tired too. Especially since he's still digesting.

"Hey," he says, as she gets into the bed, crawling over him to get on the side of the bed next to the wall. "You don't mind sleeping on that side, do you?"

"Of course not. I always sleep on this side." Besides which, he likes to be the one sleeping closest to the door. He doesn't know why, he just does.

"Well… good." He spoons her into the position they fall asleep best in. "Hey, I think I will go runnin' tomorrow morning. When I get to the bottom, which way should I go?"

"Toward town," Kelly says, yawning through the answer. "There's a sign. Don't go toward Coeburn, you'll get lost. "

"Okay." He kisses her head.

"Want me to come pick you up after? Really, you don't want to run a mile up the mountain."

"Nope. I'll manage. Love you."

"Love you too." She's asleep right afterward, even with the rain still pinging off the metal roof not so far above their heads. This is an old house, you can tell. It's all right angles, with the kitchen portion obviously added on later to the ground floor. And no built-in closets, either. He stays awake for some time, although the house is quiet. He kisses Kelly's head again, smoothing her curls back. She makes a vague _hmm_? noise and immediately goes back to sleep. Well, that's that. The bed probably squeaks, anyway.

He's awake the minute sunlight hits him in the eye, through the chink in the pink Barbie curtains. This is Madison's room, apparently. Kelly is still dead asleep, and she doesn't budge when he disentangles himself from her and slides out of bed to get dressed. He grabs some water from the tap – it's got a funny, chalky taste to it, not bad but sort of minerally – stretches, and heads out.

Running down a steep grade, he finds out pretty fast, is murder on your knees. It's not that it's a far distance, but the angle of the road is such that running it is not all that comfortable, and he's beginning to see Kelly's point about running back up. But he wants to try it. At least it's not raining, but Kelly was right about the humidity too. It's not the temperature of a sauna, but it is damn muggy, and he's drenched before he's gone two miles. It's like running through wet wool. He keeps going, probably slower than usual, but he figures the conditions entitle him to slow down just a little; the town streets are relatively flat.

At some point he gets so winded he needs to slow, and about then he looks up to see that he's in front of an old-fashioned wooden building with a sign that says "Wise County Mercantile." It has a porch with rocking chairs on it, and damn if those don't look real good right now. There's nobody around, and probably the store doesn't open until eight, so maybe he could go up and sit in a rocking chair for a couple of minutes…

The front door opens and a little old lady comes out to sit in one of the chairs. "Howdy," she says to him as he's got one foot on the lowest of the four steps leading up to the porch. "Not open yet, but you kin set here on the porch with me and pass the time a' day, if you like."

He's still too winded to talk much, but he says "Thank you," and sits in one of the chairs. _I shouldn't be doing this. I've got to go tangle with Junior Simms in a cage in six weeks_. But the porch is nice, the rocking chair is super nice, and from here the mountains – well, mountain, it's really one long ridge – are blue-green and misty like a dream of mountains. It is beautiful here.

"You ain't local," the old lady says. He turns his head to look at her. She's short, with gray hair in a boyish cut, and her blue eyes are sparkling in her soft, dried-apple face. She's wearing a lavender tee-shirt that says "The Crooked Road – Virginia's Heritage Music Trail," and gray sweatpants with pink canvas sneakers. No makeup, no jewelry except a thin gold wedding band. "Where you from, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"Pittsburgh," he says.

"Well, you's a fur piece from home," she says. "What all you doin' down thisaways? Oh, hark at me, I ain't even introduced myself – I'm Willie Maude Jeter, I run the Mercantile." She says it "murk-n-teel."

He controls his mouth, which wants to laugh. "Visitin' family."

"Not your family," she says, her head tilted over like she's a bird.

"My wife's."

"Who's her people?"

In Tacoma, on the run from Pop, such nosy questions would have angered (and, to be honest, frightened) him. In the Corps, he'd have ignored this kind of inquisition. Back in Pennsylvania after the Corps, he'd have answered only as much as he had to and sidestepped the rest. But here, and maybe now, it's not bugging him. It's just friendliness, and it's not that far off what he was doing with little Madison last night, just getting to know her.

"We're stayin' with her sister and brother-in-law. Scotty and Susan Brown." He could say more, but he gets the feeling Mrs. Jeter is enjoying getting information out of him. He'll let her ask.

"The Browns… lessee, now, Susan Brown was a Doherty. One of Castle's younguns? No, she was J.T. and Josie's biggest, and they didn't have but three… so your wife must be the least 'un. I 'member her – little Kelly, ain't it?" He grins. "No bigger'n a minute, curls an' dimples. Dance all over the place. Sunshine on legs – and was she ever a Daddy's girl."

He laughs out loud, picturing Kelly as a little kid. "You got it."

He should get up and finish his run, but he's enjoying this to a ridiculous degree. Within a few minutes, the old lady has extracted from him his name, the intel that Kelly's a nurse, that they've only been married seven months, that she has two boys from her first marriage, that she and Tommy don't have children together yet. "You remind me a little bit a' J.T, you know it? Not in the face. And you's considerable more sturdy-built." Her eyes travel over his body, damp hair to running shoes and back up. "Somethin' in the way you carry yourself, though. J.T. was a good man, took good care his family. Real shame about them miners." She gets up from her chair. "Pert near seven, which is when I open up. You want you a drank a' somethin'? I got ice-colt Coca-Cola."

_I should get up and finish my run,_ he tells himself. "I don't have any money on me. Not even a cell phone."

She opens the store door and holds it for him, assuming that he's coming in. "On the house, since you sat and talked to me so purty. I like me a good-lookin' man anyway." She grins at him and he grins back.

"I don't drink soda. But if you got some tap water, that'd be nice."

"Well, come on then." She walks through the store, which is as old-fashioned on the inside as on the out. It stocks the same sort of things as a convenience store would, but also books, basic hardware supplies, tourist tee-shirts, and what seems to be a fair selection of coffee beans in big glass containers marked "Bristol Grind House Coffee, freshly roasted." Mrs. Jeter gets him a cold bottled water out of the cooler and hands it over to him. He takes it gratefully and drinks about half all at once. "You out runnin' for your health this mornin'?"

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well… I'm an athlete. Gotta stay in shape, especially after all that fried chicken and biscuits I ate last night."

"What fer?" she wants to know, while she's unlocking doors and setting things on top of counters. "You look like one a' them pro wrasslers, all muscled up like 'at."

"Close." He explains a little about MMA, and she nods. "I should go," he says, not looking forward to the rest of his run but knowing he really needs to finish it. "I'll tell Kelly you said hi."

"You do that. I hope y'all can come by and let me see them kids, 'fore ya leave. It oughta clear up and be nice for the rest of your stay, anyway, once this muggy burns off. It's muggy on account of thet rain yesterdy. It ain't usually this bad." He tells her he'll try to stop by with Kelly and the boys, thanks her for the water, and gives her the bottle back so she can put it in the RECYCLE bin he sees behind the counter.

Running up the mountain is a bitch, and he's going to be sore tomorrow. The 'Burgh has hills, but not like this. It's not the Rockies around here, not in the least, but these are not mountains to be trifled with. Halfway up to Susan's house he turns around and looks back the way he came up from town. It's beautiful here.

Back at Susan's, Scotty is already gone; the NAPA store opens at seven too. Breakfast is on the table: scrambled eggs, pork sausage patties, more fresh biscuits. He showers and makes himself content with eggs and half a biscuit plus some fruit, sitting down at the table to kiss his wife on the cheek. She turns her head and gives him a soft, real kiss, and he wonders again just how he's going to manage some private time with her.

They spend most of the day hanging around the house, and as the sun comes up the moisture dries up. Mrs. Jeter was right, it's going to be a nice day. Kelly and Madison and Susan go out into the garden and pick stuff; they come in with a basket and Susan cans a batch of some kind of vegetable thing she calls chow-chow. Tommy plays with the kids some (the younger ones; the two teenage girls aren't much interested) while Kelly talks to her sister. They chat a lot, and while Tommy does some isometric exercises in the living room, using his body weight, he listens to them talking in the kitchen. The voices are similar enough that sometimes he can't tell which one of them is speaking, _yeah siblings_, and he gets an odd longing for Brendan.

After dinner (ham, pinto beans and cornbread, with different greens), they pile everybody into cars and go out to the Carter Family Fold for some kind of country music hoedown fiddle deal. It's not at all Tommy's kind of thing, but there's dancing, and he gets to hold his wife on a dance floor. Kelly laughing and pink-cheeked is something he can't resist for long, and by the time they're ready to go home he knows he's going to be testing the bedsprings on Madison's bed later. But as they come out of the dance/concert hall, he looks up at the sky, and has to stop moving.

Stars.

Stars in a black velvet sky, not the same stars he'd seen in the desert but just as piercingly beautiful. He stares, fighting back the tightness in his chest, thinking about Manny and the guys and missing them, and it's only when Kelly puts her arms around him that he realizes he's holding up the whole group. "Come on, baby," Kelly says into his neck, and he holds her close for a minute, before he walks to the car and follows Scotty's minivan back to the house.

In the car, he holds her hand.

On the way back into the house, he stops again to look up. Stars. So beautiful. They get the kids tucked away – which is tough, because they're all wound up on popcorn and sodas and the exhilaration of dance time – and then they go downstairs to the kitchen, where Scotty promises to take Tommy trout fishing early in the morning. He's distracted because he just wants to go back outside and stare at stars, preferably with an armful of Kelly, but, what, on the grass? And how far can they go from the house for some privacy? Are there bears out there in the woods?'

Kelly pokes him. "Hey. I _said,_ you want to take a blanket out and look at those stars that have you so fascinated?"

He gets up from the table, fast, and Susan laughs. "Take that quilt offen the couch, if you want it. And you prob'ly wanna get a ways from the house, so the light don't hinder you. Kelly, here's a flashlight so you can see where you're goin'. We'll turn off the porch light, but I'll leave the light on over the stove so you don't get lost."

Kelly points. "Okay. Out that way?" Susan nods. "And if we see a pile of rocks, we'd better stop because that's the drop-off down the mountain?" Susan nods again.

"Have fun, you two," Scotty says, and Susan backhands his shoulder. "Ow."

Kelly puts her hand in the small of Tommy's back and pushes him outside, switching on the flashlight. "Watch where you're walkin'," she says and hands him the quilt. "Don't look up, you'll trip over stuff. This is not the desert." It's sure not. He's never seen so much green in one place in his life, not even in Tacoma. "You can look up when we get settled on this blanket."

He puts one arm around her shoulder and watches where he's putting his feet. "Snakes out here?"

"Not at this time of day. They don't like people anyway, and they'd rather be up in the woods. But yeah, we got snakes – copperheads and timber rattlers." She shudders. "I nearly stepped on a copperhead in Aunt Mercy's driveway oncet. It wadn't full dark and we'd been out playin', and I guess that snake thought the asphalt felt pretty good an' warm so he just stayed… I don't know what I'd a' done if he'd bit me." He snorts mildly at her accent, and she elbows him. "Be nice."

"I like it," he tells her. "I like the way you talk."

"You ain't quit laughin' at me yet."

"Probably won't quit. Just know I love you," he says, and stops walking to pull her into his arms and kiss her. She kisses back enthusiastically.

When she finally pulls away, she's breathless. "Guess this is as good a place as any. Nobody around." She hands Tommy the flashlight and takes the quilt, spreads it out on the grass. There's woods behind them, but out in front it's clear of trees and they're pretty far from the road. So yeah, privacy.

And those stars.

"You really like those, don'tcha?" Kelly says, parking herself on the quilt and kicking off her sandals. She stretches her hand up to him, pulls him down. She looked so pretty at the dance, and she still does: flowered skirt just past her knees, white peasant top with short sleeves and a drawstring bodice. The drawstring has been catching his eyes for hours now. He reaches over and pulls on the drawstring now, opening the blouse to expose her breasts in her soft pink lace bra.

"Yeah, I do."

"I meant stars."

"I like them too. C'mere." He goes right in, kissing the tops of her breasts and cupping them in his hands. _Finally._ _Oh yes._ They kiss for a while, and although his pants are uncomfortably tight, the pull of the stars from up overhead gets too strong to ignore. He rolls to his back and holds her, looking up. He tells her about the stars in the desert, about how they were hope and beauty in that place of fear and discomfort. She's quiet, just letting her fingers twine with his. When he tells her that seeing stars makes him miss his mother, she raises herself up on her elbow to kiss his face.

"I don't know which is better," he confesses. "The stars, or holding you. Or the quiet, I like that too." There are noises around, but small leaf-rustling ones. Wind. Insects. No people noises. "I really wanna make love to you out here. I just, I kinda don't wanna miss the stars."

She makes a quiet noise of amusement. "Lie on your back and you won't have to."

"Really?" She likes girl-on-top but it's not her favorite, and usually he's the one asking for it. Well, maybe he did technically just ask for it. Without actually saying the words. But there it is: it's what he wants, stars and Kelly's body, and if she doesn't mind, why _shouldn't _he ask for what he wants? This whole marriage thing, it goes both ways. They take care of each other, and it's pretty damn awesome.

"Really. Now hush." She takes her bra off, reaches up under her skirt to slide her panties off too. She opens the front of her top so he can see her bare full breasts in the glow from the flashlight, set to the side and pointing away from them. He folds his arms up behind his head. She unbuckles his belt, unfastens his pants, pulls them and his boxers down just far enough, and makes a quiet gasp at the way he springs out of his pants.

"Yeah, I know. Been waitin' for you all day," he says.

"Can't have that," she says, teasing, and then she bends down, sucking his cock into her mouth. He can't help making a noise. She raises her head and says, "Don't close your eyes, look at the stars," and then she goes back down, her mouth hot and wet on him. He shivers a little for how fucking good it is, but he opens his eyes and stares up. How many times did he and Manny stare at stars in Iraq and wonder if they had any messages? How many times did he look up and think of his mother, how many times did he wish for someone to love him the way Pilar loved Manny? Hundreds, maybe. And here he is, with it all.

"Kelly," he says, and reaches for her head. "Stop. I don't want it to be this fast."

She settles next to him. "Okay." He kisses her, hearing her soft intake of breath as his fingers find her taut nipples.

_Oh yes_. He kisses down her neck to her beautiful tits, God, he wants her so bad – "I want my mouth on you," he tells her, meaning to go down on her this time. But she shoves at his shoulder, flipping him back over, and straddles his shoulders on her knees, tucking her skirt up and bringing him her pink, already wet and swollen. He groans out loud once, just at the knowledge that she's willing to do this out in the open, and then he lifts his head up so he can taste her.

She doesn't let him do it for long; soon enough she's moaning his name, moaning that she needs him. Moaning _please, Tommy_, and then she just moves backwards and down, sliding her slick hot folds along his cock. He lets her do that until he can't take any more, until he has to be inside her.

He reaches down to hold the base of his dick, holding it up for her. "Now," he says, and they both groan at the feel of it. She settles into a rhythm she likes, and it is only a few minutes before her hands go tight on his shirt and her inner walls grip him even tighter, pulsing with her climax. Then he grabs her waist and thrusts up from underneath, looking up past her tits and her face to the sky full of diamonds, full of promises fulfilled. He tries to draw it out. Tries to last, but he can't. _Can't._ It's too overwhelming, all this ache in the chest and beauty and sex, all the happiness, and he's going off like a rocket, holding her hips steady as he rocks into her.

When he's done, he pulls her down next to him. "God, that was so good."

"It was," she says, and kisses his neck.

"Stars," he says, "and you…" He tries to explain about the stars, what they meant, and he can tell that he's not explaining it the way he wants her to understand it, but she kisses him again.

"It's okay," she whispers. "I get it. I do. I love you."

"I love you so much."

They lie there a little longer, and then Kelly pulls a wad of Kleenex out of her skirt pocket to clean up with and he figures it's probably time to go back. Wouldn't be good to fall asleep out here.

Sometime in the night he wakes with a vivid memory of what he will always call in his head "the star fuck," and he needs her again. Wakes her with kisses, with hands on her thighs, and she turns her head over her shoulder to kiss him, lifting her leg so he can slide inside her. He stays hard a long time, until she's already come, and then he lets loose, strokes her hard and fast until she cries out into the pillow and he loses his shit, muttering into her shoulder as he falls over the edge.

The sleep after that is so soft it's like falling into feathers.

Scotty wakes him early with a knock on the door. "If we're goin' trout fishin', we gotta go now. Come on."

He scrambles into his clothes and kisses Kelly before heading out with Scotty into the dark. They eat on the way, meet Johnny near the river and slide the boat out into the water. It is peaceful and dark. There is no talking; they communicate in gestures mostly. It is just men. It is not the Corps, but it is familiar in a good and chest-aching sort of way. Catching actual fish is just extra, but they do: a string of seven or eight beautiful trout ranging in size from eight inches long to sixteen. Tommy caught two himself. Once the sun is well up, they get out of the boat and go home.

Susan and Kelly broil the trout for lunch. "We usually fry 'em," Susan says, "but Kelly tells me you're watching your diet." Tommy nods, mouth full of fish.

They spend the afternoon visiting various aunts and cousins and such, and Tommy's so sleepy, so full of trout and peace, that he doesn't catch much of the conversation. He just sits there feeling peace full up to the brim, letting it slosh around inside him, and he doesn't say much. But he holds Kelly's hand, and he smiles at people and says things like "Yes ma'am," and "Thank you," and "Glad to be here." It is enough. Or he thinks so, anyway. It is strange to be both present and removed. He listens, he speaks, and at the same time he is in his mind either on that quilt in the star-spangled dark, full of the beautiful urge to be part of her, or in that boat watching sunrise glitter on the face of the water.

The rest of the visit is like riding a wave. He watches Kelly's boys – his boys – play with their Doherty cousins, he eats strange but satisfying food, he goes out with Kelly and that blanket again under the stars. He winks back at Susan when she offers the blanket. He smiles at the way Kelly and Mrs. Jeter, who Kelly calls "Miss Willie Maude," are exactly the same height. He sings unfamiliar hymns, badly, during Sunday service at the little cinderblock church where Kelly was baptized at ten years old. He holds her when she cries at her father's grave. He hugs Susan and thanks her when it's time to go, when she and Kelly are both dissolved in tears because it will be months before they see each other again. And it's Tommy who drives them down the switchback road toward home, letting his wife wipe her eyes and get her composure back.

These are experiences he will carry with him. They will still be with him six weeks later when the cage door closes behind him and Junior Simms, and his body forms itself into a weapon, grapples with another heavy body until the body slumps, unconscious, half on him and half on the mat, and the fight is over. The referee will raise his arm as the winner, and lights will flash and people will scream, but in his head Tommy is in the mountains, full to the nostrils with peace. He doesn't need to wind himself up with anger anymore. He doesn't have to. It's all there inside him, everything he needs. And when he retires late in the year, with an MMA career record of 6-and-1, the only loss the one to his brother, he will still have that reservoir of lively quiet inside him.

At times it might not be enough to calm the remembered screams of dying Marines. At times it might not be enough to soothe the pain of watching his mother die. But those times will pass.

The reservoir will stay.

**A/N: You want to read real Appalachian dialogue? Pick up Adriana Trigiani's Big Stone Gap series ****(Big Stone Gap****, ****Big Cherry Holler****, ****Milk Glass Moon****, and ****Home to Big Stone Gap****). Her characters are the real thing – and Fleeta Mullins talks **_**just like**_** my grandmother Sarah Lou.**


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